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nominated for a Pushcart Prize

Blue Jeans

Eventually, I clean, pick up after you
once more
dead Levi’s scattered in lumps along the
earth of your closet like
crumpled drugstore receipts.

I count six and
whip each, microscopic specks of
dust fly from the denim, bits of you
in my hair & my face.

I fold, dote on each
bend, pleat, line
waistband to cuff,
run fingers over dark
spots in pigment, smoothing cloth
into tidy squares like

postage stamps, I wish to lick
and stick on a
self-addressed envelope
so you come back.