Because I did not die I returned to find the mundane mess 

of months of illness: sloughed socks like snakeskins 

 

coiled in corners, sweaters pooled soft as shadows, and lace

bras hung limp from the bedframe.

 

She is patient; she knows how this goes—despair 

unshakeable as a bad cold, how it makes you

 

clumsy and slow and nothing 

gets done. She puts a little music on, sifts through 

 

the detritus shifting her shoulders in 

a sad-girl shimmy. I could teach you

 

a thing or two about almost 

everything, she says, slipping coins in the mouth

 

of the machine, but let’s start with the laundry.

Pouring detergent, she says, Sometimes there are stains

 

that will never come out. Says, Cold

water for blood, dish soap for grease. She fishes the black tongue 

 

of a sock from the load. 

Maybe the most important thing to remember is when 

 

you have something dark, keep it separate—

Then we sit on the floor to sort through the rest.