My father’s mother was not the kind of woman
who would hold your hand or gently
stroke your cheek, her fingers stained
by cigarettes, roughened from years
of cleaning the houses of others.
When she came to visit, I remember her
cleaning our windows with a solution
she made of vinegar and water, wiping
the glass with sheets of crumpled newspaper.
She scared me a little. I knew love as snuggling,
reading together and baking oatmeal cookies.
Our house’s walls were thin, but held up with song.
It’s taken me decades to understand how
a devotion that smells of vinegar is also strong.
Posts Tagged ‘cleaning’
What Did I Know, What Did I Know?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cleaning, devotion, family, grandmother, love on September 15, 2026| 3 Comments »
Cleaning Mom’s Blue Glass, I Think of My Son
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cleaning, daughter, grief, mom, wound on March 23, 2024| 9 Comments »
Barefoot, I balanced
on mom’s counters
and I handed her
the blue glass
plates and vases
from the highest shelf.
They were dusty,
as all things are
when unused. Now
they shine, draw
the eye upward,
bring beauty to the room.
It makes me wonder
what parts of my life
I have not touched
for too long—
like that wound today
I brushed so tenderly
with my thoughts.
What was dust
now gleams this evening,
has become the only thing
my eyes can see.
And though I might
avoid it if I could,
somehow the wound
makes everything around it
all the more lovely,
as luminous as newly
polished blue glass,
as shimmering as any tear.
One Cleaning the Closet of the Mind
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cleaning, clothes, mindfulness, nothing, thoughts on January 8, 2023| 6 Comments »
how threadbare these thoughts
I’ve chosen to wear every day—
replacing them with nothing
One Small Act
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, cleaning on April 9, 2020| 2 Comments »
Practicing KonMari
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cleaning, clothes, KonMari, poem, poetry on November 23, 2019| Leave a Comment »
I did it. Exactly as she said.
I removed everything
from my closets and drawers,
and touched each thing—
every sock, every shirt, every shoe—
and I asked them, “Do you bring me joy?”
Joy, it turns out, wears many clothes.
She likes scarves. Wide necklines.
Black pants. She loves long knit dresses
and tall leather boots. She needs
lots of sweaters and many gardening gloves.
And all the while I did it,
I did as she said, I visualized
the life I want,
which is apparently a life
in which my closet is full of black pants
and scarves and tall leather boots—
a life in which I talk to my clothes
and smile as they whisper back to me,
Joy, Joy, Joy.
I Want an Interlude with Mr. Clean
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cleaning, humor, mr. clean, poem, poetry on August 10, 2018| Leave a Comment »
want to find him in my kitchen
with his big muscled arms
and his spotless white shirt.
Call me James, he’ll say, as I
pour him a glass of sauvignon blanc.
Then he’ll pull out a permanent marker
and write his name on the glass.
What are you doing? I’ll ask.
When I’m around, there’s a world
of crafty possibilities, he’ll say.
Then he’ll whip out his trusty white magic eraser
and swipe the permanent marker away.
And he’ll give me a spin—
Open for me your oven door.
Oh, James, I’ll say, you don’t mean …
… that I will bring my legendary clean
to your oven glass? Why yes, Rosemerry,
I can lift grease buildup from hard to clean places.
He’ll give me a flex. Kitchen sink next?
He’ll swagger across the room. I’ll swoon.
Oh, James. I never knew you’d be so, so, so …
… adept at sticky residue? he’ll suggest,
and I’ll guide his hand to my
faucet. Say good bye to water spots,
he’ll say with a grin, his teeth glistening
like brand new white backsplash tile, like unused linoleum,
and we’ll dance together across the sparkling floor, sponges in hand,
drawn to whatever is dirty. And the room will smell
of meadows and bleach and rain. And oh darling, he’ll say,
don’t you think it’s time you took me to the bath?
After Cleaning the Kitchen Again, He Realizes
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cleaning, ekphrasis, kitchen, love, poem, poetry on July 27, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Don’t look in the sink for happiness.
It sounds so obvious. But even the shiniest,
cleanest sink is still only a sink.
Don’t look in the cupboards.
Don’t look in the fridge. Don’t look
to the tile floor—though this
is a place we’ve danced before.
Even the stovetop, the home of flame
and chemical change—the burners
are not what we seek. Of course
we look to the kitchen. The center
of everything. Don’t look out
the open window. Don’t expect
from the empty green vase.
The only thing that’s ever mattered
were the lovers in this space.
No matter how clean the counters.
No matter how soft the breeze.
It’s us, my love, it’s us that’s missing.
It’s us that we most need.
After a Difficult Day
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cleaning, heartache, poem, poetry, song on October 13, 2015| 1 Comment »
Because my heart is aching,
I clean the stove. It’s covered
in dark brown stains, stains
so burned on they seem
to be part of the stainless steel.
Because I am practical, I wear
plastic gloves while I scour.
I know that the cleaner
would ripple my fingers and dry
my skin for days. And because
I would rather not cry right now,
I turn on my music and play
Joni Mitchell as loud as the speakers
will play. She always knows
just what to say. There are some
places now where the stovetop gleams
so silver it looks nearly new. There
are some stains I know, that no matter
how many hours I scrub,
they will never leave.
The Mother Confesses
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apology, cleaning, parenting, poem, poetry, stuff, toys on August 2, 2015| 6 Comments »
I am sorry I threw away your broken tiara,
the blue Cinderella dress with the ripped sleeves,
and the wand with the faded pink star.
I am sorry I tossed out the magic eight ball
with the blue message in the bottom that always said,
“Not Sure,” and the various mismatched sections
of Hot Wheels race tracks. And the pen
with the bobblehead that always falls off.
And you won’t find Barbie’s black high heel
rubber shoes with the broken back strap.
Or the toy Pegasus with only one wing.
Or the shiny slinky with the torque in it’s spring.
I threw them away.
There was more.
I know you loved them, those broken bits
of childhood, those souvenirs of past happiness.
I did it while you were in the other room,
and took out the guilty bag before you could peek inside.
I knew you would want them back, the jacks
you have never played with, the crappy plastic Elsa kazoo
you got at your best friend’s party.
And when you ask me, “Mom, have you seen
that little green rubber fish that I won at the carnival
four years ago”—yeah, I know you won’t ask me,
but if you do—I am prepared to say No,
no I haven’t. I’m sorry.