As I mentioned before, I’ve decided to write a poem a day. Sometimes I will post them on the blog. Unless they are egregiously terrible. This one, to be sure, is terrible. But not egregiously so, and I will therefore post it.
I think a lot of writers have ghosts in their basements. I think the ghosts are drawn to us. I have one. She is obsessed with laundry. Here is her poem.Reminder The ghost in the basement taps her brittle fingers against the dryer. Waiting.
“I’ve separated the whites and the darks,” I say. “I’ve pre-treated,” I say. She sniffs the air and wrinkles her nose.
She taps the dryer as I gather clothes, heavy and damp in my arms, and ripe with the stink of living.
She taps as I add the soap, turn on the water, and wash the life away.
Her fingernails are bitten to the quick; her skin is old paper; her mouth a bright, hot coal.