I was buried in the sand.
I had nothing but a book
of poems and Bear Grylls’
Man Versus Wild. Idug,
chipping away at the dunes
for years and when I broke
the surface, she was standing
there hanging clothes. Shaking
the sand from the folds
each shirt she hung buried
me a little deeper.
She could have warned
me about the beauty of laundry
how much she loved washing
things clean. Even now, I can
remember her detergent:
Apple Mango Tango.
The day after she told me
I never want you toleave,
while she rested her spine
against my bookshelf limbs
and we were spoons digging
at the lonely night. She asked
to borrow my laundry card
and washed never from her
hands. I am just a shirt
hanging out to dry. I am
the sand spilling from their pockets.
I am the book of poems becoming
a shovel. I am the spin cycle.
This is how she lives in a Laundromat
I spent months searching
every single coin-op for spare change
thinking I would find a quarter
of her in those tiny caverns.
The laundry always tumbles
but I am left digging sand with
poems.
I never want to live in a Laundromat
Instead, I will be the ruined shirt
on your hanger you cannot throw
away. I will be the stain in the carpet
I will learn the art of the dirt, holding
onto never and never washing
these ink stains from this page.
[based on a prompt from http://www.rachelmckibbens.com/2009/03/writing-exercise-10.html]
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