Linens

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I’ve never found the right detergent: 

the right linger of cleanliness

I want to leave behind when rolling

on the deck of splintered mattresses and foamy down  

Duck or goose or sparrow scented. 

My mother used to bleach sheets

to yellow translucency, many milky moons

stitched together, skin blend,

shells on wrinkle beaches 

freckled with kohl rim particulates; 

smudged by your thumb, chimney sweep.

And in this stinging perfume bowl

I thrive

Dita Martini, two legs up 

separated from the empty linen, 

separated from the edge of creases, 

Quilted.