It’s impossible to thinkin the spin cycle. You can only feel.Maybe you’ll notice howyou always hang the same color towels.Never blue and white, only whiteor blue.As you spin,you’ll feel the battering,the bruises forming, the purple-yellowingof them. You’ll wonderwhat kind of cycle you spin inwhen one mantestifies under oathabout another man’s face: It looks like a demon.Spinning, reddening--You’ll blink, then go back to hanging,segregating by color.
Poem #25 of 30 Poems in November to benefit Center for New Americans.