Fulfilled, we stripped the bed and washed it all—
the sheets and pillow cases, the pretty dresses
we wore while dancing, yours the bronze
orange, mine the dappled pink you say
I look sexy in—plus the blue cape you
swung last night like a lasso, doing your
theatrical cha-cha. We let all that cotton
mix in the machine, hummed to the tune
of slosh and spin. It was so hot, even
the early morning air said Morocco.
Half-naked, we made iced coffee, ate
the remaining mangos. Later, when
we headed out to the line, I said you
might at least put on shorts, and you
answered, let the neighbors enjoy.
Who couldn’t love a woman like that?
Everything you did was colorful
off-color, like your canary-dyed hair.
We stood at the clothesline dripping
in the heat, pinching clothespins.
Piece by piece we hung the laundry:
stripes with stripes—pink/white/yellow
green/white/pink/blue—tangerine
bed sheet—lavender/white/pink/
orange. Our dresses sagged softly
on the line, draped at the neck as if
we still slinked in them, skin slippery
with sweat, twirling, singing, satisfied.