Shirts bras overalls spin round
and round. Through a glass circle                 

I stare at a cycle of sleeves socks
straps suds, lose myself in the tangle,

look for a trail, any trail,
to find myself in the labyrinth’s eye

as he stomps in bickering.  
Our usual rounds of what

do we do if I die. What
do you mean we I ask.

We’ve made the rounds
of specialists, my mortal flesh

revolving on a spit for docs spitting
out options, other options, more

options, more to sort and launder
but right now all I can manage

is this big load making its rounds.
I glance outside at the dogs circling

round a bone. My husband flicks
his old green Duncan from his jeans,

untwists the string, twirls that yo-yo,
judders a walk-the-doggy, flashes

a flawless ‘round-the-world.
Our clothes now clean,

we set up a round
for the night.

Mikki Aronoff’s work appears in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Intima, Thimble Literary Magazine, London Reader, SurVision, Rogue Agent, Popshot Quarterly, The South Shore Review, The Fortnightly Review, Feral, The Phare, Sledgehammer Lit, and Flash Boulevard.