Linda Laino

Linda Laino is a visual artist, and writer living for twelve years in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She holds an MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University, and loves finding beautiful things on the ground. Her art is here, www.lindalaino.com and some of her writing is here, wordsandpictures.lindalaino.com.

I Watch The Laundry

through the open door
as I read about you
dying, drifting
in and out as reported
the grim army approaching
steady as your right hand
firmly holding down
the tremoring left,
the last time I saw you.

We listened to arias
on your turntable and ate
all the good chocolate
friends kept bringing you
and you said,
I think this opera is
too sad for this sadness.
You were equal parts
Buddha and Bukowski
so we smoked a pipe
and spun Mick Jagger
as you told a story
of ancient monks
able to fly
your left hand
suddenly stilled,
and the smoke
from our mouths
kissed in the air then dissolved.

This morning the white sheets
whip on the summer line
like inhospitable shrouds
waiting to be filled
with your incoming light.
Your Tibetan bowls are singing
in the other room
and I realize I have waited
all week for this moment.