Sylvie Laundry
When I look up, the day’s gone over
into the slow hot orange of late afternoon
and Winslow is snoozing paws up
on the sand. I’m sleepy too, feel the sun
in my bones, and Knox and I drift unspoken
toward land. I coax Winslow
to the outdoor shower and shampoo
the lake smell out of both of us
while Knox goes to get some dry clothes.
When he comes back, he’s in what he wore
yesterday. Laundry day, he says,
smiling in that lazy way that tells me
he’s also feeling the same languid
driftless joy that’s washing over me.
Joy, a place I haven’t been in so long,
a place we’re somehow in together. Somehow
I’m weightless—my towel-dried hair,
the tops of my shoulders red and hot
to the touch. Driving slow toward
the laundromat, that “Fast Car” song
on the radio, Knox resting his cast
on the open window. A snarled-up knot
has gone loose in my chest, and if
I pull it, I wonder if it’ll come all the way apart.