By Brendan Walsh

if god is cruel, which they might be,

or god is merely the neutral arc

of the universe that bends towards

apathy, then the specific agony

of folding my laundry, piles & piles

of endless fabrics, makes cosmic

sense. but today, i fold your laundry,

left behind in the dryer on your way

out the door—let me not mention

the week we’ve had, both cars killed

in catastrophic flooding, two hours

trudging the waist-deep waters—,

the black pants which two nights ago

were soaked to the pockets with sewer

runoff, your pink pajamas which you wore

after our shower, before we collapsed

in the bed, our minds hurtling toward

the expensive, unknown future, little

socks which hug your little feet, silken

underwear, that cool afroed woman

graphic tee, her hair a bouquet of flowers;

i fold all of it. not once do i consider

the struggle, the devastation we own,

only that i love the things you wear.

Brendan Walsh has lived and taught in Laos, South Korea, and South Florida. He is the author of six poetry collections, including concussion fragment, winner of the 2022 Florida Book Award. He’s the cohost of Fat Guy, Jacked Guy, a podcast with Stef Rubino. He’s online at brendanwalshpoetry.com.