Care Instructions

My mother taught me to fold fitted sheets

as if the corners were small, stubborn animals—

turn one pocket inside out, find the other,

let your wrists do what your mind cannot.

I still do it her way,

in the apartment with the peeling sink enamel

and the window that sticks in summer.

The hallway light outside hums all night,

a thin electric prayer with no god in it.

Some evenings I wash the same blue cup twice

because her lipstick mark is gone

and I forget, briefly, what year this is.

The neighbors argue in a language I almost know.

Someone drops keys. A child runs, then stops running.

The building settles deeper into itself.

The warranty on the toaster expires in March.

I keep one of her scarves on the chair by the bed,

not because it smells like her anymore—

it smells like dust, and the drawer, and rain that never came—

but because the chair looks accused without it.

At 2 a.m. the pipes begin their iron knocking,

and I lie still, counting the blows,

as if a number might open something.

As if a number might close it.

In the morning I shake the sheet once, hard,

and the room fills with light and lint.

For a second it looks like weather.

For a second I think: stay.

Then the corners slip loose in my hands again.