staying clean is a lot of work. the
toilet desires bleach. the tiles are abrasive, lots of scrub motion. the tub
remains a certain color, until it’s otherwise.
the ceiling has bronze spots. we
wipe and wipe and weekly wipe again.
so palpable the dirty areas, the mold
in places, washing violently. like conscienceness, tarnished in spaces,
refusing to take the blame, spewing out the shame, all the things I should have
said.
too much will destroy us;
eradicating guilt, paid dues, recleaned, brains cleansed, made to scrub metal,
or porcelain, gold, or silver.
the perfect cleanser—it rinses off
well—it changes color; the drama of the beast, the beat blazing, the bass
knocking, hitting into atmosphere—the quiet violinist, laying in woods, the
cherry tree filled with humility.
the clean carpet, spotless, new, no
more muddy rings; maybe, floorboards, or invisibility, thinking of
aged-made-women;
living that way, wondering about
sin, unclean as a Gentile; nay, neither clean or unclean, neither man nor
woman, neither here nor there.
in living the lie—how terrific it
is—so filthy, made redeemed, cleansed for a reason.
