A.E. Stallings

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Purgatory

Laundry drops into the trees
From overlooking balconies
And hangs, mid-plummet, in mid-air—

T-shirts, socks, and underwear—
Gone papery and shapeless, stiff,
Bleached and ragged. It’s as if

These were the husks of soiled souls,
Empty now, and full of holes,
Flensed from bodies, hung between

Two lives, for winds to lick them clean,
So that they could be worn afresh,
Pure as any newborn flesh.

But these will never rise or fall,
Caught in the middle. This is all:
Exposure too the elements.

The sun, the wind. The raw suspense.