by A.M. Broadous
Not the doorbell but the dryer signals
a hot arrival. There’s
friendship in fresh white linen—
trustworthy as gardenias, devoted
as lavender. Beautiful
as rose petals motioning toward some
unmade bed. Real as all these that
make up a load.
Bounce, Gain. Downy.
My love language has been simple
since birth. I don’t take
for granted what it means to be
held, hugged, swaddled in a bundle.
What it means to know
the comfort only fabric can afford to
spend without loss of personal property.
So I welcome the embrace.
I let the open arms of sheets take me
into this gesture—empty but warm—
the way bath water only
loves you before it goes cold.