The Laundry Basket

i wring out my heart and peg it to dry on a wiry old clothesline that creaks in my childhood garden, among the bindis, among the bone-white clouds of dust that densely coat and cover the bush flowers, the whitened wattles. the small tornado spirals sweep all of my favourite stories and moisture and tears into the air, evaporated and clean. it’s pristine and white, dry snow and ashes, until black footsteps emerge, purple shadows. the faceless man with the laundry basket, i watch him reach for the pegs, i watch him reach for me. i don’t know whether to tell him the laundry is not yet dry.