Slack

The kettle starts its low, wet hiss.

I lean my hip against the wood,

watching the towel draped

over the oven’s silver bar.

It’s twisted, one corner longer than the rest,

hanging like a dead arm.

It’s still damp in the folds.

That sour, shut-in smell

of laundry that didn't get enough air

wafts up in the heat of the stove.

I should move it,

but I just watch the steam

begin to rattle the lid.