I like folding clothes
when the house is quiet
and the windows open.
I tuck the pockets in first, for the pants.
Then I fold them in quarters, tugging at the seams.
The towels I fold in thirds
like my father taught me,
the shorts in half . The bras
I fold cup into cup, with the straps bundled inside
like a bowl of noodles. The socks—
I separate them and match at the end, like my mother.
seam to seam.
I tuck the arms in.
I drape them properly on my lap.
I fold them in half, then half again,
so they’ll fit in the drawers.
I pull the folds tight, and I place them in their pile.
You can get into a rhythm,
if you’re careful and quiet,
much like the drapes,
billowing and receding,
that sigh now
against the wood like waves.