What I Forgot and Had to Carry Anyway

I forgot them overnight.

The machine had done its work and stopped.

By morning the whole load had settled cold,

packed tight, the smell of mildew dropped

into everything.

I carried them up without a bag.

One flight, the wet jeans pressed into my shirt,

the cold specific—a slow drag

of water through the cotton,

a sleeve's worth of chill across my chest.

I stopped at the top of the stairs.

I put the basket down. I pressed

one hand flat to my sternum

for a second. Just to feel

if something needed checking.

A gray sleeve made a seal

with the basket edge, just barely,

and dripped a thin line down.

I stood there in the hallway.

The cold in my shirt. The sound

of dripping after I'd stopped moving.