• Laundry


    To love purely is to consent to distance. (Simone Weil)

    The laundry is stacked, every piece segregated
    into light and dark, and with ajudicious eye
    for quirks and nuances, you pick those which
    needed to be soaked in bleach and soap.
    The others

    you toss to the washing machine, the spinning
    whirlpool of detergent rising into pure foam.
    The sun came up today, but the scent of dark
    grey rain comes in undulating portents.
    There is

    blue smoke from the house across the river. You
    regard the heap of clothes at your feet, your faithful
    gofers waiting for your benediction, a rinse of
    cleaner waters. You think: It is going
    to rain soon. He

    is miles away, beyond the grey rain. Your eyesfondle
    the soft, sweaty fabric of a shirt; you see that it is the
    right size that would have fitted him. And longing is
    a frayedman-sized shirt you hold in
    your arms, and

    it is hisarms, neck, chest. The washing machine
    is juddering with your segregated clothes. You
    thinkyou caught a whiff ofhis scent, but it is
    onlythe musk of impending rain. You squint

    at the sky, and dark clouds are marching towards
    thesouth, a legionin battle formation.

    Forlorn, you catch yourself as if in a trance, clutching a shirt to your
    heart. You let it go to the spinning whirlpool of soap.


    Please follow our commenting guidelines.

    1 Comment