Warm Laundry

Sitting on the floor, sorting it.
In an apartment we’ve already been told
is no longer ours.
Her socks, her underwear, her
night things. All mixed in with mine.
My hands in it.
She sleeps in the other room. I can
hear her breathing, as all other sounds
one by one are eliminated. There’s half a
coconut cream pie in the fridge, I know that much.
I fold the items and put them in piles.
They don’t amount to much, really,
each garment. One particular pair,
turquoise, I turn over
and over to find
which end is up. The cat supervises
this. All this. The cat and the ants
that just moved in.

The little piles make me want to cry
I think, but there isn’t anything there
to cry with. No oil in the engine, no
no water to boil. But the sentiment is there, it’s a sad sight—
so small.

And then, for some reason, I remember
how as a kid
I used to scare myself imagining people
rising into view of my second story bedroom window.
Just floating out there. Smiling,
in the light of my room. And we’d look
at one another, and I’d make myself
continue to look
as my body became cold with fear.
And I went on to recall my many other terrible dreams,
the ones I could remember anyway, over the years, as I folded them
in halves, thirds, quarters. Packages
no bigger than my fist.

And they were still warm then, but
losing that fairly quickly.