Sunday, June 17, 2012

I wrote a poem about the Laundromat.

So, summer is here. I've got classes in the morning and work at the laundromat in the afternoon. I've discovered a deep love of folding linens and for the smell of soap than I could have ever imagined.

I'm applying to creative writing MFA programs instead of theology programs. Practicality is for the timid. I hate to quote Reagan, but the future really does belong to the brave. A life of working for the Roman Catholic church and pretending that I didn't love my queer friends, IUDs, and women who wear clerical collars would have been a life wasted.

So here's a poem I wrote about the mat. It's not done, and it doesn't have a title.

So here's a poem I wrote about the mat. It's not done, and it doesn't have a title.

One day in the future, you will remember this summer as the summer of rain. You sit in the laundromat with your legs crossed reading some magazine and clutching a denim bag with a frayed drawstring that once held clothes that smelled like sweat and spilled liquor. You look at the dirt under your fingernails and think about geologic time and where it had been before it found its way to you. Rain beats against glass windows streaked with cheap window cleaner and trickles down in rivulets – a word that you always say out loud (to no one in particular) because you like the way it feels in your mouth. A white washing machine tosses your clothes with powdered soap and you realize that, between the rain and the washer, you are surrounded by water, and suddenly you feel like you are in an aquarium, (not that you know what that feels like).  

Chris took this picture of me outside the house one afternoon. Sometimes I am photogenic.