Laundry Day

Laundry Day

I strip the bed down to its naked mattress,

feeling the heavy jump of the machine through the wall

like two rude lovers. Blonde-blue light washes color

out of my hands, the air. The cloth

folding on itself.

I shuck your pillow, and press its cold side

against my cheek. Breathing, breathing.

I’ll always smooth it back

out, undo my mess, rebuild the home.

Dust motes slide on the sterile light, and

I make sure to watch the shadows as the sun fades.

I make sure to watch the shadows my hands cast on their own.

Gray tails grow from the piles of shirts,

aching and dull.

What I mean is,

it is not that you aren’t here,

but that your absence always is.

What I mean is,

Someday it will bury me.

What I mean is,

I wanted to be your home.

What I mean is,

I will be here,

doing the laundry.