Fall/Winter 2020 Issue

laundry

Divyasri Krishnan

 

in summer we folded our clothes

all wrong; with the sleeves on the outside

& used the wrong soap & left it too long

to dry; we tried the clothesline; we tried

the dye; the rattling breath of the beast

ran all night; like cat’s eyes in the dark

we saw the digital clock read too early

in the morning; somehow we were stuck

still folding the same shirt, the same skirt,

the same tie stained with wine; a lie;

we had spent too much on laundry

to afford wine; to afford lying; 

we had too much time to ourselves

& spent it walking, light as a sigh,

on half-fractured eggshells; the machine

roared on; the night roared on; & we

who felt ourselves suddenly in danger

of being swallowed whole

 

“Sad Sneakers”
Emily Cai

 

threw our mismatched socks with our

corduroy, the whites with the punk band t-shirts,

the undisturbed bedsheets, the bras, each of our

sweaters untouched by the other; we fed it well,

glutted it fat with sleepless nights; until finally

it grew too big; devoured too much; could not hold

all our pain & in a flood of dilute rage

spat back, uncreased & blurred, all of the clothes

we had attempted to fold.