washing machine

a tongue twisted & full 

the fat pipes that pull water from my body
& fill the living room with sea-foam

the seagulls on the sill

i want to be who you wash 
your clothing in, if not a river
than at least a hope chest

a wooden lather

downstairs, the man with a hammer 
who is always working on the ceiling
is working on the ceiling 

he is mad-running back & forth

my father's coat hangers 
are also halos are also skeletons,

all of his sundays shirts looming
behind the folding doors

i put one on & forget all 
of our names, only button &
button & button

the music box of pennies

i want you to fill me,
one article at a time

snake spun,
i hinge my jaw

come socks & sweaters

this way we can avoid
the basement & the man down there

dry chew my throat

i like to watch you fold,
it reminds me of gift wrap,

our clothing turning paper 
& flimsy 

gifting a body to a front door

i want give up on clothes,
meet in the fist of 
the man downstairs

open the door & fit inside

the water locket 

washing into a photograph

the reds bleed & we turn pink 
but we don't mind because
we like pink 
we prefer pink