by Anne McCrady
Her delicate fingers place the quarters
into the slot, holding them tightly
and then letting them fall away,
as she listens to them drop and find
the bottom of the cup inside the machine.
Never in her life has she been more sure
she is in over her head,
that life will certainly swallow her up,
and yet never has she been more alive.
Like the moment at the top
of a roller coaster,
just before being plunged into a freefall,
she feels her stomach turning over
at the thought of what is to come.
Watching her clothes spin
round and round,
the khaki and denim
throwing off their wetness,
growing lighter and lighter,
pulling away from the sides
of the drum until they dance
weightless in the center
of the dryer window,
she shrugs her shoulders,
aware of a fading heaviness
and cold shiver of the first
few moments of flight.
From Anne's poetry book, Along Greathouse Road
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