All the things that used to be here
left invisible residues.
Clutter, dust, particles,
I can sense their being on the floor,
the mattress, the spaces
in here like this was a huge
carcass or a dead body reeking
with histories in the flesh.
Cleaning was my favorite chore,
until I grew tired of the
pollens that I inhaled,
a walk outside made me
a germophobe.
A dirty room made me nauseous
but nausea made me spill
my innards into art.
The conflict made a great plot
for a war collection,
as every nook and corner here
now harbors creatures I cringe
and yearn having, slightly
apprehensive of the time
I will no longer clean,
my lungs already porous
but still lungs, wanting me
to throw my vacuum.
YOU ARE READING
Live
PoetryOur hearts are brave as fire, minds gentle as earth, dreams are fluid as water, and our souls are as free as the wind. (Poetry and Prose) #2 of the end-live-begin trilogy.
