Laundry Load

I scour my way

through this basket

of dirty

laundry

to find

my saffron sequin dress

to remind me

of who I can be

before realizing

just how much I’m searching

for fingerprints from the day

we hugged each other tight,

the day my motherly instincts felt right,

any sign of maternal touch in me at all

that would rid me of this guilt

from yelling at you this morning, maybe

that is why the load never lightens, maybe

mothering you is really

a metamorphosis to the past

holding different phases of me

I don’t have the courage to let go.

stained shirt, sweatpants, drenched

in guilt –

I am no longer a butterfly but

I guess this cocoon feels nice.