I do not wish to sweep this kitchen floor
unless, by my swishing broom, I can sweep you off your feet as well
The scrubbing of the counter-top holds for me no interest
except, in inspecting its shine, I can chance to see the brilliance of your smile
gazing back at me, in love like when our vows were spoken so pure they felt like gifts from the angels.
The compost, which fills the corner bin, I’d leave it there to regrow as it will
but my heart hopes by taking it out to the pile in the corner of the yard
I let the anger I felt, the shame of having passed another day, not being the man you promised to belong to, of not being able to protect you from such pain
as we have felt sometimes
I’d take that compost out, if even one moment’s pain went with it
I feel no love for a fresh scrubbed pot
except, sometimes, I think about how scrubbing feels, and how radiance exudes from behind a fresh scrubbed child’s face
Because the mere whisper of radiance, regardless of its place or intent
makes me think of you, with that smile, and that heart that cannot hold inside its compassion
and it leaks out of your eyes in beams, and runs down your cheeks like tears
but it is not tears, and what and who it touches beams with being loved
I’d scrub any number of pots
for one drop of that radiant joy to fall on me, for the way your love feels on my chest, when you smile standing there held, where I cannot see you
but I can feel you, and know exactly how you look.
I put the leftovers away, tucked away for another day
and I wrapped a secret inside, carefully hidden
I hope you find it, but you might not
I kissed a morsel, and left that kiss for you to find
and for you to feel
and for somehow, even though it wasn’t quite right
for you to know, that I swept tonight, for you.
And hoped with each stroke of my broom, to catch you by the heel, and catch you in my arms
and deliver a matching kiss, directly to your lips
For that moment, I would sweep our kitchen floor, all night, for eternity.