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Dying Wool, Chinchero

by LauraT on September 25th, 2012


Uno, dos, tres  . . . .  lift!

 

Six long sticks rise, grunting

with the weight of it,

lifting steam and smoke and boiled green

leaves and clumps of wool curling

in a dripping mass of color.

Wool skirts swirl

round thick brown calves,

everybody hustles

the clumps from one tub

to another

until the job is done.

 

Round bodies bend over boiling

reds and purples, babies hang

slung over shoulders, sliding

closer to the cauldrons with every lean.

 

The same red hats bob up and down,

they wear the same sweaters embroidered with buttons

black braids fall down their backs,

rubber sandals slap the grass.

They have the same leather-like skin,

the same sturdy feet.

They touch each other kindly,

a hand placed softly on a forearm.

They call to one another

in gentle voices rising

like an ancient hum

over their huddled clusters.

 

Sisters, no-one is alone.

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