Folding my clothes

Folding My Clothes by

Tenderly she would take them down and fold

the arms in and fold again where my back

should go until she made a small

tight square of my chest, a knot of socks

where my feet blossomed into toes,

a stack of denim from the waist down,

my panties strictly packed into the size

of handkerchiefs on which no trace

of tears showed. All of me under control.

But there was tenderness, the careful matching

of arm to arm, the smoothing of wrinkles,

every button buttoned on the checkered blouse

I disobeyed in. There was sweet order

in those scented drawers, party dresses

perfect as pictures in the back of the closet—

until I put them on, breathing life back

into those abstract shapes of who I was

which she found so much easier to love.