‘On Laundry Day’ by Florence Lenaers

On Laundry Day

on laundry day check the pockets, question
them, make them tell you what they know. (for

the washing machine won’t hear of it.) slip
your hand inside—careful, don’t fall head over

heels. eel-catch-catch a folded candy wrapper;
looks familiar, doesn’t it? like an ear, dried

& pressed in a blank book for hours; looks like
a lonely Sunday morning multiplied by that

failed math test from x years ago. catch a
crumpled receipt—did you really buy that

much reformed ham & happiness from the super-
market with the pretty cashier who smells like

a conspiracy of melons & half-forgotten
Latin declensions? catch by the tail, catch

by the head coins from countries not sung by
the news; countries whose capital, highest

point, most polluted river, most slaughtered
animal you don’t remember from school.

catch sand under your nails; so many grains in
your pocket—in case of insomnia? a heated

argument with the hourglass? you wanted soft-
not hard-boiled eggs. catch a paper clip, so

slightly denatured, see the conformational
change; once a model paper clip, now what? the

outline of an ear maybe. catch a pebble,
a quotation from the precision of a Zen garden;

like a tiny eggplant, white like some, reminding
you why an aubergine is also called an egg-

plant; as smooth as if kissed by the warm-up
of a dancer. catch half a ticket. squint. (for

it has once met the washing machine. or a wave.
heavy rain or heart. a mote of dust in the eye.)

wonder where the other half is. ask another
pocket, but hurry up, there is laundry to do.
Florence Lenaers traps atoms in cages of light & castles of magnetic field lines. Twitter: @flloaers