Doing Laundry In Budapest

The dryer, uniform and squat as a biscuit tin, came to life and turned on me its insect eye. My t-shirts and underwear crackled and leapt. I was a tourist there; I didn’t speak the language. My shoulders covered themselves up in churches, my tongue soothed its burn with slices of pickle. More I don’t remember: only, weekends now when I stand in the kitchen, sorting sweat pants and pairing socks, I remember the afternoon I did my laundry in Budapest, where the sidewalks bloomed with embroidered linen, where money wasn’t permitted to leave the country. When I close my eyes, I recall that spinning, then a woman, with nothing else to sell, pressing wilted flowers in my hands.