Demons

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.