Somewhere, someone's embalmed in spermaceti and fresh laundry.
My machine whirs again and again, shaking the house like an earthquake,
or when you've had one too many and God punishes you for a minute.
When I pull out my sweatpants, they don't burn me, but instead,
pretend like I need to melt a little. As though nothing can start without
two matching socks with little monkeys or Santa snowboarding. And when
your t-shirt shrinks two sizes because you dried it, you laugh and over
extend yourself while breaking seams to answer some divine question
about purity, pleading with yourself and a iron-on camel--from a campus
event on a wednesday-- for an offering to those who can't wait,
those who breathe mint julep and baby oil, exhale cotton. The blue
water engulfs you, and in the back of your throat, a whale calls out.
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