FOLDING
SHEETS
Not the smell,
bleach and borax,
at least not just the smell
when the towels snap in the air
like broken wire.
Nor is it just his neatly stacked
Fruit of the Looms
with your satin Balis.
It is not even the dryer heat
or summer warmth
coming into your chin
from the ropes of laundry
in your arms.
In the end, it is folding the sheets
Because to do it well
there must be two of you —
another.
They come when you call,
parent, sibling, spouse, child, friend.
They come easily,
answering the soft call,
dry percale spreading in your arms,
great sails opening in rooms
of your hands,
a readiness to hold,
walking toward each other,
looking into each other's eyes,
folding the night at both ends.
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