in the washing machine basement
everyone is asking for rebirth.
it's just out of reach. soil & must that stays
in clothing threads. gasoline. grease.
i try again to scrub out my blood. bleach.
a bruise opens like a garden on my knee.
cinder block. cemenet wings.
i run out of money for another wash.
cull the ground for beetles i can employ
as coins until a mouth opens in the ceiling
to rain down everything i need.
wonky corner chair where a mother
is always sitting & sewing together
cockroach wings. i used to believe
in cleanness. that another could be
made fresh & new. now i see sometimes
the world becomes bone-deep.
outside even the moon has smudges
& smears. mud tracked on the ceiling
from when we tried to be ghosts.
a little girl runs back & forth in the room.
catelog of orphaned socks that want
to turn into mice. when i open
my bag of powdered detergent
i breathe in the story of clothes lines
in a field of perfect flowers. even the dandelions
have been growing with two heads.
mail boxes in the lobby sing gregorian.
i pull my clothing guts from the machine again.
toss them in the dryer. hope they come out
new garments entirely. maybe a pair of
iridescent pigeon wings.