Aching

Lines on a Sheet

She folds on herself,
White like linen, in the wind, on a line.
Unborn before
the downpour.

Then she is soaked,
bundled and knotted in herself. Awry on the line.
She is a balled fetus;
fighting her own escape.

The added weight of water
pulls. Desperate clothespins clutch flesh - she tears in the wind.
Aching cord snaps,
like birth.

She folds onto herself;
small, like linen, in the wind
tangled and dangling
limp on a
line.

This is a slightly altered version of a poem from my portfolio from 2008.