Washing the Curtains

The curtains need to be washed. I remove the rod from the bracket, and unscrew the knobs from the ends. The metal pole is gold and hollow. It sags in mid-air, before the closed windows. The fabric is dusty, torn and tattered. Claw marks, as from a cub's paw, create peep holes. I see the white paint, bubbling and flaking across the windowsill, like peeled skin. I see the broken glass, crisscrossing along my windowpane, like slashed eyes. The rocks in the garden are cold and dry. The leaves get caught in the stone crevices, and wave like hair tossed in the wind. I wash the curtains with soap in my hands. Dirt and hair collect in wet drains. My hands run the curtains, slowly, back over connecting metal rods. The fabric dries in cold, winter air. I step back, and away, and can't see through the holes, anymore.