He returned with a load of laundry, his woes, his sorrows, his sulking. His retired promises and a plea. For a sustained second, I felt his hands prying back the pivots of my mouth, pouring triggers down my esophagus. Another cycle. Another load. Start, wash, rinse, dry, repeat. I was wrung out, wrinkled and pitied. The delicate item left pinned to the wire in a mid summer-night rainstorm. Not for coins, I allowed him to collect me in exchange for some ironing because the heat of his golden brown pigments felt oh, so courageous. One wonders how the burning heat could feel so fine in the late August humidity, but it’s a story only the desert child could tell. I thrived on insulin; the devil’s blood. The reason being that the devil disguises his baggage as laundry too.