Edgar Morales

Washing Machine Skin

In a 24-hour lavanderia, at 3 a.m on a Tuesday, I

watch my clothes spin endlessly in a washing

machine. My brothers, on the other side of the room,

force a machine horse to gallop. While one sat on

top of the horse, the other spanked and kicked it

in hopes of bringing the metal gears inside

to life. “Andale,” they would scream as they threw

an imaginary lasso towards an imaginary coyote.

They didn't have 25 cents.

When they got tired of the stationary horse, we would

search the washing machines for spare change. The

clothes, soaking wet, turned the linoleum floor a dark

brown. Inside one, I found a beautiful black graduation

gown. Mami ripped it from my hands and put it on.

Ahora sí. Por fin, ya me gradué. Mira. Soy una niña

Americana. She said as she twirled in the gown. Nearby,

I jump into a washing machine and try to spin it myself.

I try to wash my skin.

I try to rid my body of this mud.

I try, like Mami tries every day, to be American.