It’s true she’s been cleaning her closets.
Sweeping was never her favorite, but
Her fingers have been caressing
The handle of a broom for some time,
Chipping splinters and flinching at
Closed doors.
It’s true she cried when dust
Bloomed from hinges unmoved.
It melted black down her cheeks
And has stayed there since.
It’s true she’s been walking alone,
Trailing her splinter-laden nails and
Wading through sunshine.
Night is cold but closets are colder;
She wraps up in city sounds furred
By the dark and billowing like smoke
And thinks only I know my body now.
It’s true she could have stayed fondling
Brooms and dreaming of housewives
Straining bellies with chunks of aorta
And muttering songs over the dishes:
*Il m’a attaché à ton lit/
Une jolie petite pute soumis.*
But the throat sticks, the tune
Tasting worse by the day and
There is hope in an empty closet.
It’s true she’s been trembling less
With the world’s turning.
Winter has let go her hair and slumps
On her back with a chilly satisfaction
But she wipes the fog from her
Eyes and whispers to her flesh:
*Swallow your heart
Relish the burning
And watch spring blooms turn to jasmine.*