I
washed your clothes
that
smelled of urine and vomit,
twice
through the cycle,
with
colorfast bleach and the hottest water.
I
folded them, matching
corners,
sleeves. I sewed new
buttons
and re-stitched hems.
I
stacked them, sweatpants
and
jeans, sweaters and shirts,
socks
and underwear, laying
them
gently, like gifts, in
a
laundry basket
in
your front hall
while
you were
in
the doctor’s office,
a
line of chemicals linked
to
your arm.
I
didn’t wait for you to come home
ashen
and thin, your head
wrapped
in a blue bandana,
your
eyes and lips
too
large for words.
Sandy Coomer is a poet, mixed media
artist, and endurance athlete. Her poems have most recently been published in Big Muddy, Icarus Down Review, Hypertrophic
Literary Magazine, and Main Street
Rag. She is the author of two poetry collections: Continuum (Finishing Line Press) and The Presence of Absence (2014 Janice Keck Literary Award for Poetry).
www.sandycoomer.com
