David and Bathsheba

When I slid the damask 
from its plastic sleeve 
to spread it on the table, 
the stain throbbed against crisp white. 

I ran to soak the cloth, 
to wash, to bleach 
until again the damask 
hung white to the sun. 
I fingered linen threads 
and found no stain. 

But when the cloth dried, 
to ease a wrinkle I tugged a corner 
taut, 
and shuddered 
as fibers sheared where the stain, 
the bleach that made them white again, 
had damaged fragile strands.