Cleaning House
Clorox bleeds out my goddamn hands as the mold encroaches. Dog fur swallows my feet. Dust from the vent overhead clings to my face as I wipe and wipe and wipe again.
Outside an infinite variety of weeds and trees and ferns splits open the brick patio with only leaves for weapons. The color green looms like a cobra head ready to swallow the house whole.
While you lie in the bed, napping, belly hanging over your plaid boxers drowning in the pine smell of your antiperspirant, I stink of sweat and dust and whatever unforgiven thing lives in our refrigerator.
My anger right now is too blunt a force. If it gets out, it will leave us charred, lungs seared black, eyeballs melted into goo, tongues that are shriveled worms. I stuff it under double dead bolt lock, no key. I am woman, hear me seethe.
This sedentary life of yours — sitting for hours like the stone frog I bought for the backyard — will surely be the death of you, and then what will I do? Oh, what will I do?
