The mountain of everyone’s laundry -
Even dad calls it “the mountain”,
pulls nature from stripes, checks,
the line drawing horse
that rushes wildly off a yellow chest,
the white plastic number twelve,
the inseam falling to threads.
The faded patches of earth below:
A double wedding ring, quilted
plot circle, hardly visible
under the brambling ragged underwear
and mismatched socks.
I fold them into the earth, carefully
creasing and facing buttons skyward,
treating each collar as a pinch pot from wet clay,
each pant leg as a grave
molded from the backyard earth
for a dead mouse.
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