“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, May 17, 2020
Laundering
Where does one begin
to unpack the suitcase of grief?
While it may be nice to throw it all away,
or donate these shreds,
I find it impossible to imagine
never
wearing those favorite jeans again,
the perfect bra, the stained shirt,
the holy sleeping attire-
I have no desire
to wash and fold and put away
for the 235th time
these obligatory articles.
I sense that grief starts with the smell
held between the threads
and remember distinctly
the quilt my grandmother made me
that fell apart
completely-
like family...
Long gone,
I ponder the scraps
and marvel a few moments
at all the layers we carry
and feel a sudden need
to give the shirt off my back
only to see
how I was made
myself again
woven with only
the softest flesh.
Painting by Aristarkh Lentulov (1882-1943) 'During the laundry', c. 1910, Public domain.
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Gravitas
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The nostalgia is real and very textured.
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