laundry day
sandpaper hands on cotton,
the fabric snags.
the friction
between us
heat rises from your shoulder to my palm
pressure
my hands crawling
clouds roll in
swollen
gray like your eyes, too full of questions
to keep from leaking
all over your shirt
the day after laundry day
your tears, alone in the basket
arthritic hands
frozen in the act
wringing them out
shirt snaps in the wind
like a towel whip
startles the summer silent
the line drags with the
weight of it
It’s getting darker, all the trees have lost their detail
shadows huddle together in front of a yellowing sky
The image of the tears left alone in the basket stayed with me. There’s something deeply human in the way the poem lets grief appear through objects rather than explanations.
So good! Loved hearing your voice💛