If her bra were the size of an atom, coul she know what made it turn pink? When she craks the lid of the washing machine, her bra is blur, a smeared cloud of possibility. Hey Newtonian Girl, says a bald man with a smirk, your bra could be in Cleveland. Nothing is real until you wash it. Then it’s never the same. She knows how fast she’s racing the bald man for the crinkled People magazine, but she’s lost all sense of her abscissa, of her ordinate. The public pulls up plastic chairs to watch her panties tumble dry, dizzy ghosts orbiting. She feels like a naked singularity. Spin up. Spin down. Damn that Pauli, she thinks as she folds her laundry, Damn that Heisenberg. Where the hell’s my other sock?
Escrito por Stefi Weisburd. Tomado de la revista Ninth Letter, vol. 2, no. 2, fall winter 2005; porque con textos como éste recuerdo que a veces me gusta la poesía y otras veces me es indispensable para respirar.
Nada es real hasta que lo lavas.