The Rinse Cycle

The grey hoodie is heavy and wet

at the bottom of the plastic basket.

It smells like woodsmoke and that cheap

detergent they use at your apartment.

I stop the machine. I can’t put it

through the heat yet. I remember

the saltiness of your collarbone

in the dark, the way the room felt

too small for how much was happening.

The water drains out with a heavy

thump of the pipes.

I’m standing here with a damp sleeve

pressed against my face.