All summer I washed clothes in the sink, worried
to lose them in the communal pile of laundry
la doña would throw on the couch for us to sort.
I’d write down anything I placed in the basket—
blue cat pajama pants, yellow daisy skirt.
But I never gave her my black clothes, afraid
they would fade grey drying on the Spanish rooftop.
I washed those by hand—
the black jeans, black shorts, black long skirt
with the bleach-stained hem, black tank top,
black strapless bra that he took off
while parked on the empty fairgrounds at 7AM, black
polished nails on the dashboard,
black pupil, freckle, black
thong on the carpet, black
blood on the leather, on the sand walking home.