ode to the laundry mat off grant avenue 

i walked there alone in the deadly summer.
sat in a plastic chair while my hands tumbled 
in their little machine. i did not want
to go home. the apartment vibrated 
like a death box. my room without a window.
the laundry mat owners spoke portuguese 
to one another & i picked up bits
& pieces of conversation with my spanish. 
"he was never in love" & 
"we should not have opened the door"
& "i hate the light." around four the sun
would always shine loud & furious. 
through the big gaping window. 
the light blurred all of us. pastel citizens
of a glowing waiting place. when my clothes 
were done sometimes i would stare at them
as they rest in their nest. the soap opera 
on the tiny television would start a new episode.
once, i put another quarter in. i dried
all my legs again even though they were done.
the shop owner asked, "do you want a refund?
did the machine not work?"
this was the closest i came to telling anyone 
the truth back then. "no. it is working fine."
confused, she looked into the whirl with me.
all my limbs in there. the relief of not having
to be alive for anyone just a little longer.
in another machine a blanket ran
like a horse. in another machine a child 
slept soundly. when the cycle was over 
i wanted to beg the machine for more.
you crave the liminal most when something
has to give. standing in the stairwell
with my body in a laundry bag i still craved
the hum of that place. it's promise that 
for however long your skin needed, there was
no where else to go.