On a Hot Texas Sunday in Autumn

by E. Kristin Anderson

The laundromat is filthy,
the fan mounted in the corner
coated in dust and lint, recirculating
the dirty air into the sticky room.

We’ve combined our clothes in one washer,
your pinstripes and my brights so completely
ours as the machine hums and churns
against the out-of-order models on either side.

So now is a good time to fight, where you
can’t just stare blankly at me while I cry,
you have to hear, I can’t raise my voice
more than enough to combat the noisy dryers.

We won’t make a scene.  We won’t
look each other in the eye.  I sweep the tears
from my eyelashes and watch the white audience
of washers burble and spit.  This is what love is –

this is our sullied undergarments,
swirling in the dryer while we suck down
enormous sodas and wonder how to communicate,
our boundaries being all we have.

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