she looks out at the lights,
the tip of the wing.
If part of it peeled back,
spiraled down,
and she was the only one to see,
she would pull the tiny shade.
She would touch his forearm,
mouth, I love you.
He would remove his headphones,
say, What? Maybe, You're pretty.
And it's enough.
Just like when he's watching TV
and she brings the laundry
warm from the dryer.
He pats the cushion beside him.
She pours it out for him to fold.
[Karen Harryman, 'Laundry', from Auto Mechanic's Daughter]
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