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Washateria Blues

By Farrah Fang

In Houston they don’t really call it a laundromat
It’s a washateria or la lavandería
Today you go to the one on Airline and Tidwell

The chronic pain and weakness in your body
Makes it difficult to relocate canastos of clothes
From home to your car, to the washateria, to inside the machine

You sell plasma, despite being banned because of your
Birth-curse and inclination to sleep with men but your Texas ID says
FEMALE with your soul-name and now you can afford a cleanse

You’re woozy and dying as you shuffle piles of panties and
Skirts, bras, basketball shorts, briefs, hoodies and dresses
Into the swirling vortex where you watch all of your armor
Make soaking, purifying love blending as one wet hole

You think of Carlos, one of them because there are many
The time he came inside your wet hole and stayed there
His body falling asleep on top of yours, his soul still in you

There’s an Ignacio and some Edgars staring at you bend over
Into the washer, your freshly shaven legs teasing them to
Enter but as you rise they notice you are not like other girls

Your sweat strings from forehead to neck, your wig
Disheveled, your nipples peeking from the Astros jersey
Your tío gave you (it was the only clean fabric you could wear)

You wait for the machine, thinking of Sisyphus and Pontius
Wondering why modern poets don’t allude to them more often
Perhaps you have not adapted to the zeitgeist of today
Still trapped in 2006 in your Plath phase, under jars and drills

You separate the tops and bras (your mother said not to dry them)
The rest are thrown into another machine and more men stare
As you backhand sweat from your face and adjust your hair 

You peer into your reflection in the glass door of the dryer
Your eyes are sullen, your curvature swelling and opaque

Machines cycle for hours, ceiling fans spin futility
You think, “God is not dead; She is trans!”, then begin folding mismatched socks

Your overactive hands are indented by the heavy canastos
Still burning when placed on the wheel, sweat still frothing

Clothes in the backseat, you drive home, carry your armor
Toss it in drawers, onto hangers and then nosedive into your mattress

You think of a different Carlos and
pleasure yourself into soft dreams

 

 

 

 

Listen as Farrah Fang reads Washateria Blues.
Added: Wednesday, December 18, 2024  /  Used with permission.
Farrah Fang

Farrah Fang was born and raised in Houston, TX. She is a writer and poet, a performance and mixed media artist, as well as a community organizer. She is the author of the poetry chapbook “Quererme en La Luz'' (Abode Press, 2024). Her poems have been published in journals such as The Texas Review, The Bayou Review, new words {press}, Bullshit Lit, and more! She is a recipient of the Idea Fund grant which sponsored her project THE FUTURE IS TRANS, an arts exhibition centering emerging trans and nonbinary artists in the south. She is an advocate for the liberation of trans people across the world.

Image Description: In a black and white portrait, Farrah Fang looks forward. She has bangs with loose pieces of hair framing her face and wears a statement necklace with gleaming dark stones. 

Other poems by this author

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