Another day with no rain, and we are
arguing again. You say I don’t
know how to fold. And you’re not
wrong. Like a body at an altar
you say, but I never liked them,
the public nature of the thing.
You talk about the communion
of saints while I fish coins
out of my pocket. The dryer’s no good,
so I pull wet clothes and you wring
them into an empty trash can. We hang
shirts around our bedroom like the cloths
some people affix to trees
in prayer. Bending into a machine
can be a catechism. I am standing
amid a ruin of everything
I own. I’m asking for redemption
the only way I know.
TODD OSBORNE teaches and writes in Hattiesburg, MS, where he is pursuing a PhD at the University of Southern Mississippi. His poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming at The Missouri Review, Hobart, Shot Glass Journal, Arc Poetry Magazine, and elsewhere.
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Issue 11 Playlist