laundry
the whites. the colors. darks. the ‘do not dry’ pile. the bras go in their own mesh bag. the things that dry on ‘low.’ the coupla sweaters. look out. i’m on the job.
the whites. the colors. darks. the ‘do not dry’ pile. the bras go in their own mesh bag. the things that dry on ‘low.’ the coupla sweaters. look out. i’m on the job.
when she sings it’s me, not she, who stands exposed. she doesn’t share my slightest shift of balance, this inner turning-to-see-who-sees. not fear, but that same skin.
writing a poem in your head is a bit like planning a surprise party for yourself that you know your friends are too busy to attend and you’ve already chosen an apology to serve before cake.
skeletal. benubbled. micromanaged. polypollarded. elephantiacal. unapologetic. verklempt. sword-fronded. enslaved. stumped. miraculous. punk’d.
there are things you don’t quite understand but you wait, you let them in you take the time, you move toward. there’s times you get reminded, you have a thing. the thing you have is not the thing you don’t quite have. you get confused. you wait, and then in time, you have them both. […]