A Poem by Melissa Carl
A freak, crocus-warm winter afternoon
pours its sun into scent on sheets.
On the lines, wooden pins creak
and clasp my towels.
An upsurge of air
my clothes awaken,
stir with the intimate knowledge
they have of my hair,
my skin. The snap of material
the sound of freedom.
I like that my shirts are sails,
that something of me
is on the wind.