On the Line
She hangs yellow-gray undershirts,
moth wings flapping in the sun,
matching the mucus ever
clumped just above his lips.
He jabbers about brown juniper,
jabbing his cane at the decay.
Empty clothesline dips twice,
a contour of drooping breasts,
bared for neighbors to see,
huge u’s with clothespin nipples,
mocking motherhood, sagging
under dreams wrung dry.
Meals from pared cash and
vegetables, thrown into salads—
unhungry husband becomes
a wilted carrot, whiskers wild
root hairs he cannot see to shave.
She unhangs the only outerwear
he will hang upon himself
these endless days of dying
while she murmurs about the past
when love was uncomplicated,
children danced among fallen apples,
and clean clothes easily pleased a man.
The breeze shifts, the landscape responds.
Everything dead appears alive under the air’s caress.
Sheets undulate on the line with more life
than the man flailing in their floral waves
on his way to the garden where
hope, God’s compost, lies.
She hangs yellow-gray undershirts,
moth wings flapping in the sun,
matching the mucus ever
clumped just above his lips.
He jabbers about brown juniper,
jabbing his cane at the decay.
Empty clothesline dips twice,
a contour of drooping breasts,
bared for neighbors to see,
huge u’s with clothespin nipples,
mocking motherhood, sagging
under dreams wrung dry.
Meals from pared cash and
vegetables, thrown into salads—
unhungry husband becomes
a wilted carrot, whiskers wild
root hairs he cannot see to shave.
She unhangs the only outerwear
he will hang upon himself
these endless days of dying
while she murmurs about the past
when love was uncomplicated,
children danced among fallen apples,
and clean clothes easily pleased a man.
The breeze shifts, the landscape responds.
Everything dead appears alive under the air’s caress.
Sheets undulate on the line with more life
than the man flailing in their floral waves
on his way to the garden where
hope, God’s compost, lies.
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