My Old Wardrobe

My Old Wardrobe

By Samara Gerstle

My Old Wardrobe

stretches my tendons

apart from my joints.

My arms lengthen to my knees

and I heave the clothes 

to rest against my chest.

I fling the basket on top of the dryer,

fingers losing grip before it lands.

My whitened knuckles peel

a cup from week-old detergent,

blue gooey strings grow

from the shelf. I press

down on the button of the spout,

curling my thumb and pushing

my fist against the bottle

to drain the last of it

into the cup, slipping

down my fingers.

I place the cup down

into the circle

to contain the mess.

I pour the clothes

into the washer,

lifting the basket

in front of my face,

moving it to my feet.

I slam, start, and move

the basket to hold 

down the washer lid,

stepping back to

watch it shiver.