The Housewife
Whites: hot wash, cold rinse, large load,
spring-scented bleach. She could stain
treat in her sleep. Each morning the mound
of soiled linen spills over the hamper-
knits, delicates, underwear still wearing
their pants. Some days she considers
quitting the laundry, hiding the darks
in the shed or burying the gentles
in the yard. She imagines the house
insulated with old sweaters. But when
the lid locks for the spin cycle, something
like satisfaction swells inside her.
The centrifugal force increases,
the clothes cling to the cylinder, even
the wall with a picture of Mary
in her gold foil halo is shaking.
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