Laundry by Angelica Huertas '10

the clothes must be separated.

first, my son’s faded band tee
a whitish smear undoubtedly spurted
as a result of his private passion.

there is a hint of red stain
in my daughter’s underwear, betraying
the secret of new sexuality.

my husband’s blue button-down
carries the faint scent of foreign woman
an odor familiar from his embrace.

and the only sound that echoes in this house
is the dull hum of the washing machine.