You rise, you dawn br roll-sleeved Aphrodites, br out of a camisole brine, br a linen pit of stitches, br silking the fitted sheets br away from you like waves. br br You seam dreams in the folds br of wash from which freshes br the whiff and reach of fields br where it bleached and stiffened. br Your chat’s sabbatical: br brides, wedding outfits, br br a pleasure of leisured women br are sweated into the folds, br the neat heaps of linen. br Now the drag of the clasp. br Your wrists basket your waist. br You round to the square weight. br br Wait. There behind you. br A man. There behind you. br Whatever you do don’t turn. br Why is he watching you? br Whatever you do don’t turn. br Whatever you do don’t turn. br br See he takes his ease br staking his easel so, br slowly sharpening charcoal, br closing his eyes just so, br slowly smiling as if br so slowly he is br br unbandaging his mind. br Surely a good laundress br would understand its twists, br its white turns, br its blind designs – br it’s your winding sheet.