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.