Absorbency

The silver drawer is rattling and bare,

so I go digging through the laundry heap.

I find a fork and wash it with a prayer

for anything that's clean enough to keep.

The towel is at the bottom of the drum,

a damp and heavy waffle-weave of blue.

I press it to my face and I go numb—

it smells like that detergent used by you.

I dry the metal, pushing with my thumb

until the frayed-out cotton leaves a dent.

The skin is patterned and the nerves are dumb,

wrapped in the ghost of some floral scent.