Poetry
snooze
Jocelyn MacDonough
the alarm rings on time,
but you convince yourself there’s always more.
fall back asleep -
you’ll wake up in an hour, maybe,
until you open your eyes to sunlight:
you’ve overslept.
but you close your eyes again -
snooze.
the minutes creep by until they turn to weeks,
days spent under blankets
hours dissolving into soup.
blink once, blink twice
is it your birthday?
the answer is yes but also a quiet really?
blink again and the world moves around you
in double speed, fast forwarding
while you still drift in a state of half consciousness
it’s your birthday, and then it’s not
it’s someone else’s birthday, and you forgot.
wake up and count the days
but a week ago feels like months behind
and the days until next week shorten before your eyes
there’s so much you wanted to do
and yet not enough time
but that’s a lie -
you had the time, you let it slip from your grasp
time spent drifting away.
you remember the promises you made left undone
ribbons sitting prettily on the floor where you forgot to tie them
the present boxes were empty anyway.
you looked at the time,
checked the date, told yourself -
tomorrow, definitely,
or maybe next week or next month or or or -
(never)
dreams from summers past reappear for a moment before leaving too,
asking you: is it time? can you -
they leave too quickly for you to answer,
a timelapse of the sky except this time
the clouds running by are unrecognizable.
you count the things you’ve done on one hand -
no, that was last summer, no, that happened months ago,
did this happen? you don’t remember
you hide the confusion behind indifference,
pretend the words coming out of your mouth don’t ring with dissonance
the harmony of your dreams and promises forgotten.
it’s time to flip the calendar -
well, it’s a week late, but that’s okay.
at least this time you remembered
instead of keeping february there long after the flowers bloomed.
check the time. a minute since you last checked,
or an hour. it says an hour.
it’s raining today,
but the forecast said it was clear -
you remember you made plans -
ah, that was last week -
and the plans were for the next.
you remember to eat,
staring at the pan in silence
until you flip over the toast and see black instead of gold -
but it was only a minute, you insist,
scraping off char.
you eat it anyway.
stare at yourself in the mirror,
memorize the stranger in front of you.
step in the shower and close your eyes,
listening for the rumble of cars passing by
and the groaning of the garage.
step out,
stare at the stains on the bottom of the tub in disbelief,
dark grey splotches from the dirt on your skin.
but soap doesn’t wash away your sin;
it’s just hair dye.
black covers the trash can too,
in between tissues spotted with blood -
a nosebleed, maybe, or a cut -
running together in a muddy mess of sludge.
you fall asleep and dream,
wake up and move on with your day, and think:
didn’t i do this? i have to do this, don’t i
realize that was only a dream -
remember the time you woke up after a nightmare,
sheets tangled around you,
only to wake up again,
realizing you never woke up the first time -
are you still dreaming? it’s time to wake up,
except you’re not dreaming and there’s no totem to prove it.
the clouds take the form of a spinning top this time,
but they move too fast for you to see it fall.
stagger out of bed again and sit down, dizzy.
you swear it was a dream,
but you remember it so clearly.
you swear it wasn’t a dream,
but you can’t remember anything but an idea.
they sit you down,
tell you you have less than a week,
five days,
four, three,
and then you’ll have one.
you tell them you know,
smile, nod,
but you don’t.
you just want to climb back in bed,
close your eyes,
watch the clouds pass by through your window,
fall asleep and dream.
wake up and find out you have no more days left -
wake up, you tell yourself,
wake up,
you overslept by months.
Jocelyn MacDonough
the alarm rings on time,
but you convince yourself there’s always more.
fall back asleep -
you’ll wake up in an hour, maybe,
until you open your eyes to sunlight:
you’ve overslept.
but you close your eyes again -
snooze.
the minutes creep by until they turn to weeks,
days spent under blankets
hours dissolving into soup.
blink once, blink twice
is it your birthday?
the answer is yes but also a quiet really?
blink again and the world moves around you
in double speed, fast forwarding
while you still drift in a state of half consciousness
it’s your birthday, and then it’s not
it’s someone else’s birthday, and you forgot.
wake up and count the days
but a week ago feels like months behind
and the days until next week shorten before your eyes
there’s so much you wanted to do
and yet not enough time
but that’s a lie -
you had the time, you let it slip from your grasp
time spent drifting away.
you remember the promises you made left undone
ribbons sitting prettily on the floor where you forgot to tie them
the present boxes were empty anyway.
you looked at the time,
checked the date, told yourself -
tomorrow, definitely,
or maybe next week or next month or or or -
(never)
dreams from summers past reappear for a moment before leaving too,
asking you: is it time? can you -
they leave too quickly for you to answer,
a timelapse of the sky except this time
the clouds running by are unrecognizable.
you count the things you’ve done on one hand -
no, that was last summer, no, that happened months ago,
did this happen? you don’t remember
you hide the confusion behind indifference,
pretend the words coming out of your mouth don’t ring with dissonance
the harmony of your dreams and promises forgotten.
it’s time to flip the calendar -
well, it’s a week late, but that’s okay.
at least this time you remembered
instead of keeping february there long after the flowers bloomed.
check the time. a minute since you last checked,
or an hour. it says an hour.
it’s raining today,
but the forecast said it was clear -
you remember you made plans -
ah, that was last week -
and the plans were for the next.
you remember to eat,
staring at the pan in silence
until you flip over the toast and see black instead of gold -
but it was only a minute, you insist,
scraping off char.
you eat it anyway.
stare at yourself in the mirror,
memorize the stranger in front of you.
step in the shower and close your eyes,
listening for the rumble of cars passing by
and the groaning of the garage.
step out,
stare at the stains on the bottom of the tub in disbelief,
dark grey splotches from the dirt on your skin.
but soap doesn’t wash away your sin;
it’s just hair dye.
black covers the trash can too,
in between tissues spotted with blood -
a nosebleed, maybe, or a cut -
running together in a muddy mess of sludge.
you fall asleep and dream,
wake up and move on with your day, and think:
didn’t i do this? i have to do this, don’t i
realize that was only a dream -
remember the time you woke up after a nightmare,
sheets tangled around you,
only to wake up again,
realizing you never woke up the first time -
are you still dreaming? it’s time to wake up,
except you’re not dreaming and there’s no totem to prove it.
the clouds take the form of a spinning top this time,
but they move too fast for you to see it fall.
stagger out of bed again and sit down, dizzy.
you swear it was a dream,
but you remember it so clearly.
you swear it wasn’t a dream,
but you can’t remember anything but an idea.
they sit you down,
tell you you have less than a week,
five days,
four, three,
and then you’ll have one.
you tell them you know,
smile, nod,
but you don’t.
you just want to climb back in bed,
close your eyes,
watch the clouds pass by through your window,
fall asleep and dream.
wake up and find out you have no more days left -
wake up, you tell yourself,
wake up,
you overslept by months.
Thursday Girl
Iris Rhyee
Every November I take all the fallen leaves off the pavement
The brown ones you only notice as they crunch under your feet
I lay them on the floor of my closet
So when I need to kill or crash, I can put a match to my dresses instead
To burn daylight when Thursday comes
Because I am a Thursday girl
Stuck in time, waiting for the day to come, but the night never stops
Constantly counting the minutes, the seconds, the bruises until the clock slows to twelve
But the daylight I’ve burned and the people I’ve killed have left tears on my back and my hands
And the pain becomes so bad and the blood bleeds so red
I cannot let go of the sins that have stained my clock
So I turn back time and keep myself in a perpetual Thursday
As my mind turns into a cicada
I write and sing and scream until I can crawl out of my skin
Until I’m able turn my pain into poetry and therefore power against time
Not for myself, but for the nameless feeling buried in my pocket like a receipt waiting to be returned, the one that sits in the waiting room of my broken pen
For the centrifugal force of a dream shattering a window and a hand swinging back to slap me
For the girls who slip out of rooms like dreams in the morning because they think the air is not for them to breathe
For girls stuck in a perpetual Thursday
Counting the minutes, the seconds, the bruises until the clocks slows to twelve
Knowing that all the bruises and seconds in the world won’t make you grow into your skin
Or maybe it’s just another way to ask for forgiveness without blood
Iris Rhyee
Every November I take all the fallen leaves off the pavement
The brown ones you only notice as they crunch under your feet
I lay them on the floor of my closet
So when I need to kill or crash, I can put a match to my dresses instead
To burn daylight when Thursday comes
Because I am a Thursday girl
Stuck in time, waiting for the day to come, but the night never stops
Constantly counting the minutes, the seconds, the bruises until the clock slows to twelve
But the daylight I’ve burned and the people I’ve killed have left tears on my back and my hands
And the pain becomes so bad and the blood bleeds so red
I cannot let go of the sins that have stained my clock
So I turn back time and keep myself in a perpetual Thursday
As my mind turns into a cicada
I write and sing and scream until I can crawl out of my skin
Until I’m able turn my pain into poetry and therefore power against time
Not for myself, but for the nameless feeling buried in my pocket like a receipt waiting to be returned, the one that sits in the waiting room of my broken pen
For the centrifugal force of a dream shattering a window and a hand swinging back to slap me
For the girls who slip out of rooms like dreams in the morning because they think the air is not for them to breathe
For girls stuck in a perpetual Thursday
Counting the minutes, the seconds, the bruises until the clocks slows to twelve
Knowing that all the bruises and seconds in the world won’t make you grow into your skin
Or maybe it’s just another way to ask for forgiveness without blood
Every Summer's Flowers
Anonymous
Every summertime is a summer in which I don't pick flowers
Which is why I yearn for Winter during Spring.
Bleak days and dreary skies,
Don't make the sadness go away.
Though something is special about burning your skin on the snow
As opposed to the sun.
Kids are always warned not to stare at the sun,
but never not to walk on it.
Fields overgrow emotionally, something I cannot find within myself
And still, I insist on writing myself into a role where I am
the loneliest fool.
I write myself a role in which I plot my death, metaphorically.
A puppet overthrows its puppeteer
and now, aforementioned puppet is paralyzed in the face of the sun and her sunflowers, defying God's will.
Control alludes the flowers too, petals crisped and whisked by wind.
I hate that I love them
In such a pitiful form.
Now every time I see flowers during summertime,
They remind me of a place without seasons.
Places where there is no thunderstorm lurking ahead of soft rains.
But there are seasons.
Seasons in which I see fields of flowers and turn away,
Picking flowers will come another day.
Anonymous
Every summertime is a summer in which I don't pick flowers
Which is why I yearn for Winter during Spring.
Bleak days and dreary skies,
Don't make the sadness go away.
Though something is special about burning your skin on the snow
As opposed to the sun.
Kids are always warned not to stare at the sun,
but never not to walk on it.
Fields overgrow emotionally, something I cannot find within myself
And still, I insist on writing myself into a role where I am
the loneliest fool.
I write myself a role in which I plot my death, metaphorically.
A puppet overthrows its puppeteer
and now, aforementioned puppet is paralyzed in the face of the sun and her sunflowers, defying God's will.
Control alludes the flowers too, petals crisped and whisked by wind.
I hate that I love them
In such a pitiful form.
Now every time I see flowers during summertime,
They remind me of a place without seasons.
Places where there is no thunderstorm lurking ahead of soft rains.
But there are seasons.
Seasons in which I see fields of flowers and turn away,
Picking flowers will come another day.
Where Did The Days Go?
Monty Gomes Where did the days go? My memory has been twisted apart, The only things I remember were All the important ones, Days between psychiatric meetings, Days between one-off dinners, Days between games and events, With friends, Muddled in nothing but fog, And mundanity, Is this what rest is? My mind doesn’t feel all that rested, So much to be done and so much yet to be done, So much to see and so much yet to be seen, It prattles and scampers about, Searching for anything to peck at, Anything to be done, But this is what rest is… Sitting and staring at a humming blue-light amongst family, Talking to old friends and Rekindling old fires, Yet, it still feels isolating, Is this what rest is? Where did the days go? Is this what summer is? Is summer being nestled in a room, In a place you only hollowly call a home? Do you begin to cry At the mention of being a part of a family? Is summer always meant to be a struggle? I remember summers being lonely, Even in a house full of family, Is that what summer is? This summer wasn’t as lonely, Wasn’t as aching, wasn’t as painful, Tears streak and stain my cheeks, My brows ache from furrowing, And sweat beads on my forehead, But at least I have a warm smile Plastered across my face, This is what summer is, Summer is bounty, Summer is the peak of growth, The peak of beauty on earth, Summer is running free barefoot atop grass, With the family puppy, And laughing as you tumble down onto earth, Even if you’ve cried so many days prior, Where did the days go? I think I’ve spent them growing, And I’ve grown well. Girl Dinner Monty Gomes I don’t know what to say, during dinner time, whenever I sit at the dinner table, Dinner is not over because of me, staring at the cutlery and picking at the food, Dinner is not over when it’s all empty words, being passed to you, Dessert is too long ahead, They’ll all just hold me down with their weight, until I’m fine again, I’ve tasted the dying citrus, and the aftertaste’s bitterly clung to my tongue, Dinner never seems to end, and now I’m staring at the cutlery again. An Empty Embrace
Isabel Moreno The chair rocks Back and forth Providing comfort and support to the child A loving mother Cradles her body With delicacy A tender embrace Making her feel loved The child weeps And embraces her mother’s spirit Rocking back and forth In an empty chair Before
Luchian BelauLorberg Light kneels away from hoarfrost birchgrove bedpost, And air, in sweat-sweet-skeins, Slips down like silk, Or the soft split second memory of it spilled over wintered wood, Would darkness, like a nightgown fall, to still the chill-hoarse breath, Caught quickening the bowered boughs, bark-rawed, And cursing that they thawed no more, In the paling, peeling light. I Lead
Catherine Jiang I lead you follow but I shiver, crumple, unsure. I ask you respond the answer I don’t have. You lead I follow shoulders lifted up without weights of unknowing but people who share the same blood as me criticize their words ringing in my ears “I don’t know” a slap in the face for them. You ask and I am torn falling down in my mind a pit of indecision. H2Ode
Evan Somasse Rejoice, Rejoice! The liquid of life. Rejoice, Rejoice! It will not cause strife. Rejoice, Rejoice! All beings need it. Rejoice, Rejoice! It fills us with grit. Rejoice, Rejoice! Through Earth it’s dispersed Rejoice, Rejoice! It quenches all thirst. Rejoice, Rejoice! Can come in a squall. Rejoice, Rejoice! Should be close to all. Rejoice, Rejoice! Make sure not to sink! Rejoice, Rejoice! It’s the perfect drink! Walt Whitman, A Cosmic Inquiry
Emily Tonning Do you have a map of the stars? What did you use, Uncle Walt, All those years ago? What gave you the strength, Uncle Walt, To shamelessly walk against the scornful edges of this planet, Despite the chance that your clothes would catch Or that your skin would get cut up? How were you so brave, Uncle Walt? So sure of yourself, and so proud, Amidst a world where your kind wasn’t allowed? What constellations gave you the strength? But maybe it was as if the stars were inside of you the whole time. |
I hate the letter B
Medina Dilts I hate the letter B A constant reminder that I’m not good enough bold enough bright enough basically not the best I berate myself beyond belief An underachieving overachiever Becoming simply an underachiever But basking in the validation the blatant lies I breathe to banish the belittling back talk that bombards my otherwise brilliant brain I hate the letter B because I am better than that because my blood, sweat, and tears bear a breathtaking shine One to be admired One certainly not worthy of a B. Fourteen
Anonymous I felt that sick feeling again The scent was as familiar as my bed is every night At one time I only drew life If this feeling permitted me to do so. She was the light of the stars; her smile told me How she loved the sun her long brown hair Pink halter tops Showed me what it is to breathe I felt that sick feeling again When we were alone together that night And I, lonelier than her. She was alone Because she wanted somebody's love- Just not mine. I don't feel sick when she's away But when she awakens From her boy-stricken, infatuated sleep I will look at the sky, now only to cry. The sky will look back at only me. Because now I am alone. And I do not even deserve to feel her presence, Let alone her love. But somewhere, she watches the world under the same night sky which brought us together. We are with different people and still, the sky we grew up under never changed. Untitled
Jess Plucinski When you asked me not to think about you all of the time, I didn't know how to tell you I already do. You run the course of my mind each and every minute of every waking hour. I think about what we were, who we were. What we are… who we are together now in this, Moment. Now that I have you, you are my everlasting train of thought, my one true happiness but, I need you to be happy and free. so when you asked if I love you I didn't know how to say I do. Untitled Jess Plucinski I am Glass. I'd rather the glass break, than endure every hit and crack, never being relieved of the pain and tension of staying together. My Siren Song
Harriet Foley I try not to eat all the delicious food But I'm so addicted to it Everywhere I look I am glued, Glued to the sight of where it sits. It sits in a cabinet or on a shelf In a pantry or a cupboard But I must stop myself Or my weight will be outnumbered Outnumbered by what you might ask Outnumbered by the amount of treats I might have to start wearing a mask Or start eating beats I get bored after school And think that i’m starving It’s not good to be such a fool Eating so fast it’s alarming I should eat healthier And not eat Pirates Booty I could become more merrier By eating things that are more fruity I think I can break this habit This battle that pulls me in I know I can do it I just have to figure out a way to win The Beads of Men
Anonymous hung by the strings of patriarchy, tethered by the man strung across like a line of beads, spread out spread thin as i roll and roll i am pushed around the borders created by him with the goal to get out, but the fear of falling off the table off the wall the ball will roll until it falls. Patience
Anonymous My thoughts never stand in a line This thing that thing always in my mind What to think? I don't know Thinking from here and fro What does it take to slow down It takes all emotion but leaves a frown No emotion make dreadful days Anytime you show you may get frayed Thoughts on paper make stories The mass are happy, some sad No matter the writing, it's never bad It's a canvas to paint dreams Draw it down, organize it, cut the seams Make it a masterpiece For everyone to see Take Time for it to be Everything has a place Don't rush, it's never a race Quality takes minutes Hours Days Weeks Once achieved, take a break Your work is no longer in your mind All my thoughts all on a line |
Pinky Promise
Sierra Boyd
She used to run wild,
through the tall grass,
sun beaming down on her,
collecting yellow dandelions as she goes.
She used to have a contagious laugh,
that would echo through the room,
make everyone stop and smile.
Pinky promises, they were the world to her.
Every hour of every day was spent holding pinky promises in the palms of her hands.
She believed everything would stay the same with a pinky promise.
Time flew by and she grew up.
She used to run wild, but now she sits down quietly,
No grass tickling her legs, but wrapped up in a blanket in a chair by the window,
No waves of sunlight sunkissing her skin, but looking through that window at the storm clouds staring back at her,
No dandelions, just whatever life throws at her.
She used to laugh at any given moment, but now there's silence,
Echoing through the room,
While everyone who used to smile back now looks past her.
One pinky promise still meant the world to her,
No matter where she was, no matter who she was with,
That one pinky promise was still hers.
Her whole life fit inside this pinky promise.
Never thought to break it, can you even break it?
She asked herself a million times.
Who would ever break it?
Then something changed.
That one pinky promise that was tied together with her heart strings,
That one pinky promise she thought was impossible to tear apart,
That one pinky promise she put everything she had into,
Broke.
She asked herself a million times, why?
What went wrong?
Was it her fault?
Can I get it back?
I only found one of those answers.
I moved on with my life and let that broken pinky promise move on with hers.
Sierra Boyd
She used to run wild,
through the tall grass,
sun beaming down on her,
collecting yellow dandelions as she goes.
She used to have a contagious laugh,
that would echo through the room,
make everyone stop and smile.
Pinky promises, they were the world to her.
Every hour of every day was spent holding pinky promises in the palms of her hands.
She believed everything would stay the same with a pinky promise.
Time flew by and she grew up.
She used to run wild, but now she sits down quietly,
No grass tickling her legs, but wrapped up in a blanket in a chair by the window,
No waves of sunlight sunkissing her skin, but looking through that window at the storm clouds staring back at her,
No dandelions, just whatever life throws at her.
She used to laugh at any given moment, but now there's silence,
Echoing through the room,
While everyone who used to smile back now looks past her.
One pinky promise still meant the world to her,
No matter where she was, no matter who she was with,
That one pinky promise was still hers.
Her whole life fit inside this pinky promise.
Never thought to break it, can you even break it?
She asked herself a million times.
Who would ever break it?
Then something changed.
That one pinky promise that was tied together with her heart strings,
That one pinky promise she thought was impossible to tear apart,
That one pinky promise she put everything she had into,
Broke.
She asked herself a million times, why?
What went wrong?
Was it her fault?
Can I get it back?
I only found one of those answers.
I moved on with my life and let that broken pinky promise move on with hers.
Our little secret
Anonymous
I can’t stand the silence
Why won't you talk to me?
Why won't you look at me?
Why do I not exist to you at all?
Well until It's late, and the waves of solitude and longing plague your mind.
Until you miss the comfort my ever “understanding” heart provides you.
Every word of passion is a bandage for the forever bleeding wound that lies in the depths of your being.
You can’t pray it away, I’ve tried.
Am I your drug?
Take a hit.
Am I your quick fix for the itch you've never been able to scratch?
Answer me
Answer me.
1,671 days you have been gone.
I thought I meant more to you?
Betrayal.
In every way,shape or form.
Tell
Me
What
Happened
Sisyphus?
Is this my own personal hell?
You have been blocked.
Anonymous
I can’t stand the silence
Why won't you talk to me?
Why won't you look at me?
Why do I not exist to you at all?
Well until It's late, and the waves of solitude and longing plague your mind.
Until you miss the comfort my ever “understanding” heart provides you.
Every word of passion is a bandage for the forever bleeding wound that lies in the depths of your being.
You can’t pray it away, I’ve tried.
Am I your drug?
Take a hit.
Am I your quick fix for the itch you've never been able to scratch?
Answer me
Answer me.
1,671 days you have been gone.
I thought I meant more to you?
Betrayal.
In every way,shape or form.
Tell
Me
What
Happened
Sisyphus?
Is this my own personal hell?
You have been blocked.
chemical lavender and must
Jocelyn MacDonough
hit the broken light until it flickers on,
load the laundry,
pour detergent,
spin the dial,
press start.
wait an hour,
trudge down the stairs,
hang the laundry with care.
an idyllic picture of domesticity,
romantic and picturesque.
the scent of laundry turns into candles,
fresheners put in cars and bathrooms and homes,
images of billowing sheets printed on labels.
saving electricity is kept in mind,
not to save the planet but to save on bills.
summer air is warm and clothes dry within a day,
but hang limp inside on rainy days.
bringing laundry outside isn’t in wicker baskets,
but tossed over a shoulder and carried out,
sock hanger dangling on a hand while the door is pushed open,
mismatched shoes thrown on to walk daintily over grass.
in summer, the wind blows clothes off of racks into grass,
tangles sheets in the lines,
bugs settling in the folds of fabric.
pull ants and spiders and worms off clothes,
wait for bees to fly off sheets before bringing them in.
forgetting to bring in the laundry means
running home to untangle to laundry line,
picking up clothes strewn on the grass
stack them high on a newly tense shoulder
and cart them inside.
run down for the rack,
fling open the door - the sun may have set already,
darkness might have already come knocking.
reach blindly for the wooden rod beneath freezing fingers,
look uselessly for clothes left fallen on the ground.
tomorrow, wake up and see their damp, cold carcasses strewn about -
or perhaps only sigh in relief, hands unstained red.
when the weather turns cold and rainy,
hang them inside.
when the temperature is low,
holding damp clothes freezes hands numb
a dryer makes them warm and toasty
even after taken out and folded.
the feeling of creeping downstairs to steal
a pair of pants, a shirt, some socks,
that are still damp
haunts the basement.
pull them on warm dry skin anyway,
shiver under the coldness -
it’s not coldness, it’s dampness -
and ignore it, because there is no other choice.
how long do clothes take to dry in winter?
have they ever been left to fully dry?
loving the smell of washed laundry becomes impossible
knowing the scent of damp laundry hung inside without sun.
the scent lingers, even after dried and while worn
under layers of hastily sprayed perfume.
no amount of scented detergent can mask
the damp, musty scent without sunlight.
it permeates the laundry room, faint but noticeable,
all winter long.
smell it. remember it.
head to the laundromat
listen to the plink plink of quarters tumbling merrily
alongside the thrum of a thousand other machines
to wait in the laundromat as a lingering ghost,
reappearing when fingers are too numb to open a clothespin.
sit down in the cold grey room -
just like the basement you pulled wet carcasses out of -
watch the laundry fly through the spinning disk
the temporary warmth held in trembling hands
wholly unfamiliar and coveted,
disappears in the trash bag by the time it’s dumped on the bed.
it’s cold even there.
maybe a dream is just
a simple wish made while tossing a coin in a fountain
growing mold at the edges.
maybe a dream is
to own a dryer one day.
the fluttering sheet in a field of grass
is really just a suffocating weight on shoulders,
tangling itself into knots on the laundry line by the wind.
any pleasant smell is faint,
artificial from a cheap mix of detergents,
chemical lavender and spring and unscented.
walk outside and bear the sweltering heat to hang laundry,
stand on tiptoes to reach the highest lines and wish it was easier.
shiver in sweatshirts at night to hang laundry
in hopes it’ll be dry before morning
(it won’t; wear it anyway).
Jocelyn MacDonough
hit the broken light until it flickers on,
load the laundry,
pour detergent,
spin the dial,
press start.
wait an hour,
trudge down the stairs,
hang the laundry with care.
an idyllic picture of domesticity,
romantic and picturesque.
the scent of laundry turns into candles,
fresheners put in cars and bathrooms and homes,
images of billowing sheets printed on labels.
saving electricity is kept in mind,
not to save the planet but to save on bills.
summer air is warm and clothes dry within a day,
but hang limp inside on rainy days.
bringing laundry outside isn’t in wicker baskets,
but tossed over a shoulder and carried out,
sock hanger dangling on a hand while the door is pushed open,
mismatched shoes thrown on to walk daintily over grass.
in summer, the wind blows clothes off of racks into grass,
tangles sheets in the lines,
bugs settling in the folds of fabric.
pull ants and spiders and worms off clothes,
wait for bees to fly off sheets before bringing them in.
forgetting to bring in the laundry means
running home to untangle to laundry line,
picking up clothes strewn on the grass
stack them high on a newly tense shoulder
and cart them inside.
run down for the rack,
fling open the door - the sun may have set already,
darkness might have already come knocking.
reach blindly for the wooden rod beneath freezing fingers,
look uselessly for clothes left fallen on the ground.
tomorrow, wake up and see their damp, cold carcasses strewn about -
or perhaps only sigh in relief, hands unstained red.
when the weather turns cold and rainy,
hang them inside.
when the temperature is low,
holding damp clothes freezes hands numb
a dryer makes them warm and toasty
even after taken out and folded.
the feeling of creeping downstairs to steal
a pair of pants, a shirt, some socks,
that are still damp
haunts the basement.
pull them on warm dry skin anyway,
shiver under the coldness -
it’s not coldness, it’s dampness -
and ignore it, because there is no other choice.
how long do clothes take to dry in winter?
have they ever been left to fully dry?
loving the smell of washed laundry becomes impossible
knowing the scent of damp laundry hung inside without sun.
the scent lingers, even after dried and while worn
under layers of hastily sprayed perfume.
no amount of scented detergent can mask
the damp, musty scent without sunlight.
it permeates the laundry room, faint but noticeable,
all winter long.
smell it. remember it.
head to the laundromat
listen to the plink plink of quarters tumbling merrily
alongside the thrum of a thousand other machines
to wait in the laundromat as a lingering ghost,
reappearing when fingers are too numb to open a clothespin.
sit down in the cold grey room -
just like the basement you pulled wet carcasses out of -
watch the laundry fly through the spinning disk
the temporary warmth held in trembling hands
wholly unfamiliar and coveted,
disappears in the trash bag by the time it’s dumped on the bed.
it’s cold even there.
maybe a dream is just
a simple wish made while tossing a coin in a fountain
growing mold at the edges.
maybe a dream is
to own a dryer one day.
the fluttering sheet in a field of grass
is really just a suffocating weight on shoulders,
tangling itself into knots on the laundry line by the wind.
any pleasant smell is faint,
artificial from a cheap mix of detergents,
chemical lavender and spring and unscented.
walk outside and bear the sweltering heat to hang laundry,
stand on tiptoes to reach the highest lines and wish it was easier.
shiver in sweatshirts at night to hang laundry
in hopes it’ll be dry before morning
(it won’t; wear it anyway).