The methodology for his laundry
still makes me laugh and cringe and laugh again
that I am no longer faced with the mounds
of heavy denim, wool river drivers
with seed-sized burn holes and necklines fraying,
air-drying from every door jamb like long
beans on the vine, even during summer
the fire going. First I ate it up
like caterpillar, what are these odd ways,
who exactly fills the pockets of his
flannels? I, hungry, curiously felt
at home in his cocoon, butterfly with
wings not clipped just retracted for winter.
There is no warmth quite like that of woodstove.

Nicole Chvatal writes property deeds and other witty things in Bath, Maine. Her work has appeared in Popshot Quarterly, SWWIM Daily, Quarter After Eight, Panoply, LEON Literary Review, The Portland Press Herald and Deep Overstock Magazine. She is a graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College.