washing machine

i put a leash on my hand
& walk it down to the soap lands 
to drink. inside the gut circus 
we find our sock orphanage.
when i say i want to come clean
i do not mean i want to tell the truth.
i mean the truth is telling me.
zooming back to see my life 
& thinking "who is this monster?"
you are always the gentler tongue.
you say, "get me a glass of blood."
in the fridge is the body of an angel.
it lasts all winter if you are not greedy.
the stains do not ever come out.
not from this life or the last one.
i used to go to the laundry mat
& pray for salvation. watching
all the wads of clothing
roll & roll. their owners, naked
sitting on plastic folding chairs.
i trust no one. i wash my dresses 
in the sink. hang them up 
around the house. ghosts pop into them
from time to time. i say, "you look lovely"
&, embarrassed, they vanish.
the trick is bleach or so i'm told.
bleach & a head without any syrup. 
i can't live without the sugar though.
i'll go mad. i'll start chasing ants
into their little kingdoms. i'll start
demanding rent from the quail. 
instead, i subsistent in lavender chaos.
the washing machines of my eyes,
churning. spitting suds in the sink. 
i have a dirty mouth & i intend to use it.