Leora Fridman

Local Laundry

No stump presents a louder reflection of your most
frivolous task. No line break can withhold
your palms. Once, you asked a small field farmer
for mustard greens, and, without knowing it, let him
slip you an orange behind. Youthful tendencies.
Gritty shelves. “Is dusting something people do?”

A joint project of childishness and sun dried
water-logged beets. The brightest of colors
can’t be replicated without the perseverance of Tide.
High at sandy-born altitudes. Women I know come
scampering through oddly-winterized slots, leaving
behind only soiled underpants and
attempts at homemade bleach. ‘A fake flower,’ or;
‘I think I am just now getting at something.’
Unreadable swirls of bubble at the surface, refusing
to be identified as soap, speed-froth, or worms.

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