laundromat and her and my body

— Shreya Khullar

brisk flick of the

a “See ya” away from
            the root, my nest
click of her whole, and hardened palm
pink against, just underneath, her pleats

and her morning laundry I held
I hold, in warm,
            in mouth,
in nothing particular,
            in “la”

her ironed skirt crisp and shivering with leg
my voice muffled by chest, burrowing in blouse
in nothing
            in stifled air
in between the words

            of “her” and “her body”
            and “I’ll see you again, next Tuesday maybe”

her plaid pants steamed on skin, cloth cupping cheek
rolling down flexed calf and lifted thigh

            on her way to unravel, unstitch

and she tucks her linen behind a locked door
and she folds her fingers into mine

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