Sweeping It Under the Rug

The grit of boot and paw, flakes
of skin, fur tufts, all swept
in a hurry, as if
the dirt of living
couldn’t wait but needed—quick!
to be concealed. Beneath
a rug—it could be frayed, it
might be fine—a mat—it could
be over other grime,

other hurried sweepings.
Someone had time to bend
and brush but not remove,
not take trash to the bin.
Too tired to move another
step? Or numbness? Caring
enough to conceal but not
to carry away, one idiom col-
liding with another. Out
of sight. Out of mind.

Talking to you I might be
grasping straws from the broom
that did the sweeping, a
sweeping up I cannot make
to matter because the
tool’s worn thin.

When you treat those wounded
years like so much dirt to hide
and ask that I walk over
what’s been hidden, worse, work
at the concealing too, I’m
a regular hausfrau,
flinging carpets on the line,
beating out dust with the broom.

I’ll clean with you, make a stark
start. Not take a dirty mess
and help you hide it.