Soaked Through

The laundry basket

a forgotten cave

where textiles go to die.

My fingers, numb to the chill,

found it coiled at the bottom,

a sleeping python

of terry cloth.

It came up heavy,

a lead blanket,

the water still held tight

in its woven gut.

Cold, cloying against my palms,

it dripped a dark confession

onto the linoleum floor,

a stain spreading slow,

like a thought I can't shake.

Yesterday's shower,

today's burden,

still seeping.