Poetry 2010 / Volume 41

Sweeping — Judy Ireland

I sweep at the front door.
I sweep away your ghost and our long-handled
fights that sat on the fire for days.
I sweep with sweat between my breasts,
housecoat tied at my waist.
I sweep with amis that wither and fatten at the
same time. I shape myself into something new
with each swipe of the broom.
I sweep up the stray hairs and
fingernail clippings, pieces of thread,
dust and daylight. I sweep us forward
into the grass,
onto the rocks and the pebbles.
I sweep our lives into the street.

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