The Weight of the Rope

The clothesline is sagging under the weight

of the towels I washed in the sink.

They’re heavy with rain and cold soap

making the wire start to kink.

Grandma said the garden only grows

if you let the roots go where they must.

I spent a year trying to tie you down

until the twine turned into dust.

The rope is fraying into gray hair.

The wet cotton drags in the mud.

I’m finally letting the tension go

before it starts to draw blood.