Laundry
DS Maolalai
outside
the door to my apartment
the washing machine
goes like a helicopter.
it shakes
dances on the floor
rattles like a jazz drummer at practice.
my girlfriend says
I should call the landlord. something's
off with the balance
she says.
it could be fixed pretty quick
by a man with a screwdriver.
she's a pharmacist
and lives with her parents.
what does she know
about washing machines
or landlords?
I try to just get my clothes out
as fast as I can,
let someone else put in theirs
and hang my trousers
to drip-dry in the shower.
if I don't use the spin cycle
at least it's not
my own dirt
that keeps me awake.
Marianne Moore
DS Maolalai
I'm not going to try
ripping off her style –
I couldn't.
I'm no mimic
and not that good.
But only
I'll say
that so rarely
do old poems
so written like marble
and so built to catch dust
come so readily alive -
she was born to be an editor
and instead wrote poetry
severe enough
that it was like being cut
by a machine
designed for cutting.
And nobody ever talks about her
anymore,
I suppose
because she said
what she felt needed to be said
and then never
said anything else.