by Maggie Swofford
We watched
the flowers
fold under
the summer
sun—105°
windchill—
we looked
out my bed-
room window.
I baked and
caked my
makeup on by
the windowsill
only to have
it drip off.
The flower
vase tore
off its
stand
during a
violent
storm,
and we
threw our
laundry
at each
other as
nights grew
dim and
hot.
The next
day, every
day, we’d
cross our
legs and
fold
the wrinkled
fabric back
into something
we could
wear.