Fold

The dryer stops and makes that sound

like a bell in an empty room.

She takes the clothes out, hot and alive,

and folds them on the table.

Jeans, shirt, jeans, shirt.

Then she refolds the shirt.

This time the sleeves are different.

She holds it up to the fluorescent light

like she's checking the seams

for evidence of who she is.

I've seen this before.

Not her. But this. The trying on

of the same life three different ways.

The dryer door hangs open

like a mouth that can't close.

The heat keeps rising.

She folds it again.

The third time, she leaves it.

Carries it out in her arms

like she's finally decided,

or given up deciding.

Either way, it's gone.