Cleaning Up Kitchens
The soul makes out of ashes,
out of quicklime and white walls,
a crowd of seraphim singing.
“Sometimes”
Linda
Gregg
(the slough of
the maple comes alive again
in the hot pit
that will make it
ash, ash, ash,
and then, sifted, a pearl)
Before the
bedroom, because that’s where
her bloody body
was goddamnit
strung-out and
flopped, matted and pulpy…
before going
into it again
and the two
rooms already clean
as the day they
were made
there’s time,
there’s a bit of time
for a quick
smoke,
out on the back
porch, and so she goes,
stepping over a
pile
of sheets she’d
found behind
the bathroom
door
shitty sheets,
and because there are those
three
nightgowns spinning themselves out
in the wash
in the wash
she’ll get that
quick smoke
and come back
in
and spray the
most dangerous stains
and, after half
a cup
of bleach, and
a whole of Tide,
she’ll wind
them careful
as a spool into
the drum
and close the
lid.
Don’t you wish
everything was as easy
as a drum and a
wash
a simple way to
agitate all the puke
and blood and
bits of lip
(though she can’t
think about that,
there’s that
bed to clean still)
And so, that smoke. And a way to inhale
and exhale. To cough.
and exhale. To cough.
No comments:
Post a Comment