HOW TO FOLD A FITTED SHEET



Jesu Christi! It’s only a fitted sheet, it came folded
in the package – this isn’t witchcraft, but anything larger
than a double (and even then it’s no picnic)
seems an hour’s Laocoön from the line, and a queen-
or king-size is to wrestle something part kraken, part tsunami.
Thus I plunge into this billowing ocean of white
as yet untrammelled, a Leander, taking corners like a boxer,
arms outstretched in contrapposto crucifixion.
A Sestina is an easier thing not to be whelmed by, a metaphor
for panic, pulling into shape in six minutes, resting
on the seventh before a second try
as the whole thing maliciously puckers in like a prolapse.
It’s like being trapped under ice,
knowing that you’re drowning, not knowing which way is up.
There is a method, but it has been lost,
this origami, this God-like tesseract of space-time.
A sextant is needed, a horizon line, to set a course
true, bringing together east and west, north and south
into a cool, smooth mass of polyester cotton, an in-folding
of white matériel like the making of a pavlova,
or else just fall face-down on the back of Lohengrin’s swan
and ride it into the night to an Earthly Paradise
where such modern conveniences
are unknown.             

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

THINKING ABOUT LUKE WILLIS THOMPSON

WHY PETER GILDERDALE CAN GET STUFFED

BOHEMIA'S FURTHEST SHORE: CZECH INFLUENCES ON NEW ZEALAND CULTURE