When, in ninth grade, I came home baked and naked, my mom jogged to the laundry room. I followed her—she was crying—and, when she reached both arms into the dryer to unload the fresh clothes, I hugged her.
She kept her arms in the dryer.
"Mom Did Laundry"
A clothespin the size of a thumbnail; it couldn’t hold up a sock.
Its tiny metal coil could be a tack-holder. Blonde wood,
and when I squeeze the legs together—hug the
legs with my child-body—its mouth
opens wide.
I release.
It snaps shut with a dull click. My
mother.
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