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Original artwork by Lance Dornan

Quarter-Dried Denim


Matthew Feinstein
Poetry

Eighteen, I leave home for dorm dryers

nestled behind Tree Hall in a decrepit

 

laundry den. At its suite mate’s feet,

puddles hoisting student quarters

 

like lily pads. No second cycle.

Instead, I suffocate my wardrobe

 

with a trash bag, make it my hamper’s

neighbor for the week. I pluck

 

jeans as needed—let them air dry

walking class to class. The stench

 

of mildew turns blinding cloud.

My childhood takes opportunity

 

to return someplace imaginary.

I won’t notice its absence for years.

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