When I tear into a tangle of laundry 

I always fold his clothes first.

At my first realization I swept 

it aside. “His clothes are bigger

than mine, so I finish folding faster.”

But then our daughter appeared and I fold her clothes after his.

Infinitesimal socks. Shirts. Pants. 

Lilliputian dresses, dolls’ outfits with strawberry print.

Leaving my clothes to the end.

Why not fold my clothes first?

Why must I be last?

Why this sacrifice?

It is not an animal on an altar, or

even a trickle of my blood taken by 

a knife.

But it is an act of devotion, 

a ritual with my body.

An act no one sees me doing

alone in the bedroom.

My hands smoothing over every wrinkle.

Attempting to create order 

in the universe.

Kneading quiet socks into spheres, 

pushing them away into darkness.

Shoving the arms of sweaters

into straight lines like the fabric of 

constellations joining.

The grinding snap of the

dresser drawers

completes the rite.