CLOTHESLINE IN THE SUN

Out in the garden, I tied the rope with firm knots,

saying this is where the sun falls best.

That pale blue line looked toward your window,

its blinds raised like watchful eyelids.

I brought out my cleanest poems in a woven basket,

and hung them—not laundry—into the warm, fragrant air.

Something stirred in my belly, thick as egg yolk;

I was hanging myself out there,

clipped beneath red clothespins…

Your windows closed their eyes.

Clouds gathered and groaned above my garden.

The poems were already soaked—

and I ran barefoot, unpinning verse by verse,

trying to save at least a line,

or that one word

the whole of life hangs on.