by A.M. Broadous
January 2022

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.