Poetry from the Spring 2026 issue
Laundry, 1 a.m.
The dryer turns its one slow moonbehind the glass. I sit on the folding tableand wait for my sweaters to finish being warm.Somebody's phone lights the ceiling, then doesn't.Outside, the quad holds its breath of frost,the paths gone silver where nobody walked.I think of my mother, who folded towels in thirdsso they'd fit the shelf the house was built with.I fold mine in halves. The shelf here is anything.The buzzer goes. Everything I owncomes out a little smaller, a little closer,and I carry it up the stairs like something lit.