It’s impossible to think
in the spin cycle. You can only feel.
Maybe you’ll notice how
you always hang the same color towels.
Never blue and white, only white
or blue.
As you spin,
you’ll feel the battering,
the bruises forming, the purple-yellowing
of them. You’ll wonder
what kind of cycle you spin in
when one man
testifies under oath
about 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.