Laundry Day

I’m undoing myself

and sewing it back together.

My body is circular,

a comet, a loop of thread

like a magnifying glass,

stretching

until I can climb through

in rebirth.

Today, I am ordinary,

stains removed.

Am I less feminine,

now my blood has washed away?

Now that pain is not woven

into the fabric of my skin?

Does it reduce me to a white sheet

with no stories?

I hang my secrets on the washing line

and watch them drip onto the lawn.

Is it catharsis or starvation? The label says

it might take a few tries to be clean.

Until then, I’ll watch from my window

as the March breeze eases me dry.