Clothespin

She's hanging laundry on the fire escape,

clipping her bra strap to the line,

while I sit inside trying to drape

my life in privacy, in design

that keeps everything hidden.

A clothespin holds it there—

her underwear, her proof,

her casual indifference to the air,

to the block's eyes, to the roof-

top view of her body.

I watch her clip and clip.

No hesitation. No fold

to hide what she's kept. The slip

of fabric becomes bold,

becomes proof of her existence.

She doesn't hide the way I do.

Doesn't tuck herself small.

Doesn't know what it's like to chew

on the fear of being visible, to stall

between what's yours and what's exposed.

The clothespin is just metal,

just a tool, but it holds

her bravery, her mettle,

her refusal to withhold

the simple fact that she has a body.

I'm still inside,

still keeping my edges,

still unable to confide

in the belief that the ledges

of my life should be public.

But the clothespin holds her there,

clipping proof into the afternoon,

and I'm learning that the air

between exposure and safety is the tune

we choose, and she's chosen differently.