My father was a somniloquist; he only talked to me in his sleep. Lured at night by his one-sided conversation one room over, I would escape the cot I'd grown out of, gaze at my sleeping mother, and ... [+]
Lost in the light
of a laundry
room,
clean
air
invites me
into morning.
I sit
and hear the sounds
of whirling,
washing
and with it
I am
at peace.