Dennis Hinrichsen: [dominion] [Wash Day]

I fail at spirit perpetually. EVIDENCE—one shirt linen—green—
sewn in Bangladesh—I’ve pulled

from the others. It is Tuesday
and it is soiled

and I am doing laundry. Blue linen—India—
something plaid—Sri Lanka—snapping

from the collar to get the wrinkles out. Yard
fat with summer.

A few bees. All my First World pain—
I have some of that—

washed away—I’ve done a second rinse. Pissed
into the secret basins of my city.

Now I air dry—I like the fabric coarse—
like a woman’s

hand—smell of daylight
in the weave—

an eroticism
but with no real touch—I cannot for the life of me

conjure body
that stitched each cuff and pocket—the cicada-clicking

engines of dying sweat. Phrases
n Bengali

for fingers numbback is failing
there are no supports for the chairs—my pious acts

of consumption
notwithstanding (I paid good money

for the styles). It is Tuesday—still—there is a sense
of newness in the world—

the shirts are being
reborn—residues of wind and sun—infusions

of added scent. The one set aside I am scrubbing—
there’s ink on a cuff that must be

erased—pinpoint portal
to nowhere—smear of a word in Bengali maybe—śrama

indicating labor—but not the toil—
that’s mine—bare-fingered witching the stain away.

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