D.S. Maolalai
pulling your linens
hard against the mattress. like flags at airports,
tight in high winds. piling
old sheets in the corner
and putting down new ones –
our tangled scent and memory
given way to smells of chemicals.
I don’t know if I like this;
replacing the comfort of odors
with something that comes from a bottle,
which smells the way that someone
has decided flowers smell,
but I know you do. and really,
who wants dirty bed linens?
I’ll like this just as much
when we’re both asleep tonight.
I tuck it at the corners
and strip the comforter
for new covers.
you are in the kitchen
sorting the rest of the washing. it’s winter,
walls batting cold
like a horsetail with flies.
I feel that I could take your laundry
and pile it with my fingers.
push it down
like leaves in compost.
fall in it backward
and sink.
Clamor 