Laundry Room

by Sarah Mayo


I tear at threaded pockets. I was never taught to darn.
Bare neck on black tile, eyes shut,
fantasies reverse — Our synchronous intertwined deaths
and then our first date. Ferris wheel, a wonderful night for.

Feel the seams.
Cook with butter — the fish, the potatoes. I’m suggestible.
I float.

Asleep, everything tilts — me and the appliances,
the foundation. Did you know I put my hands
all over the washing machine?
To feel how flat it is. What could level the metal so?

The beautiful bear of laundered space.
Most things, I know why but not how. Paranoia

a bobbing white canoe at the dock: I must find my clothes,
I spend too much time in skin only,
the outside comes in. Permeable

summer. Crinkling browns. Crisp salmon skin.
Just one corner of the mouth, just one corner
of the napkin. Wash later. 


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