Myra's submission for Monday, April 3

Airing

A. E. Stallings

Each partner has a task, and this is mine:
That there is always something on the line.
The laundry dances in its emptiness.
The shoulders shrug,the sleeves reach to caress...

The wind is pacing through the upper floors,
Opening and slamming all the doors,
Like an arguement in married love
Repetition will not cure it of.

There is a kind of vacancy that hurts.
The wind is trying on the white of shirts.
I open up the door. As for a hug,
The sleeves blow out to me. The shoulders shrug.

In the emptiness, the laundry dances.
The wind's all empty threats and second chances.
The door slams shut. The white bed sheets tender
A sort of peace, the terms of their surrender.