Underthings (Poetry)

When she left she left her washing in the basket
and it stayed in there for years.

I left it hidden at the bottom of the pile
and all the while it sat there waiting
it seemed there was a possibility
she would return —
need someday to collect those personal things.

Time went on
and knowing they were there
was a vague comfort
like a proof that she had lived
and breathed and bled —
her blood my blood —
in that long-ago evapourated flood.

Today I took them from the basket
and gave them to the machine to deal with
like this was absolution overdue.

Washed and rinsed and spun —
they hang in ruins on the airer —
lace and cotton shredded — rotted through
by those old stains
the magic potion failed despite its promises —
couldn’t clean or mend the past
all is sanitized and faded —
turned to rags and drying into small unwanted shells
I wish I had the strength to throw away.