Though I sloshed inside the machine
of her body, as our whites swam in a soft boil,
were wrung, hung,
or tried to,into the pain and ultimate
forgiveness of pines. …
I realize that one can't really depend on a poem to make sense in ways those in supermarket lines might mean the term, but there is a logic, an intuitive sense that we demand; these opening lines are less organic than they might be, seeming instead to be the result of an edit that rid this sentence of a qualifying phrase in the center of the expression, conflating washing machines, wombs and clotheslines in one gamy sequence. Not that the clause would have fared better with an explication, short or expansive; it was bad writing to begin with, a clumsy entrance into a badly decored room.
Paula Bohince, in fact, seems the voice of the workshop, with the sort of inarticulate , choppy cadences that are intended to duplicate the moment of realization, the epiphany,
The Y branch hoisting the heaving line,
spiders who'd snooze
in undershirts. Shook awake,
would climb air.
who was there
in every crevice.