Don’t let nobody sweep under your feet, she said
as I pulled my feet up onto the couch,
placing my little girl chin on my knees.
“Why can’t you sweep under my feet?” I asked.
I want to see you married someday, my girl.
From her brown corduroy couch, I watched
as she swept her floors, a wooden handled
straw broom for the kitchen and dining room,
and a rainbow vacuum for the carpets.
She sang and swept. Swept and sang.
I was there the day the salesman sold
her the promise of clean carpets
and an easier time keeping her house in order.
It seemed to me she worked just as hard
with the rainbow as she had before.
The day I was moving out of my university dorm
and into my first apartment, she visited me.
She held out a brand-new broom and dustpan.
Don’t take your old broom into your new house, she said.
Let the old dirt stay where it is.
When everyone had cleared out of my new place,
I swept and sang. Sang and swept.
I surveyed my kitchen floors just like she had
and decided it was probably for the best
that I’d left the old dirt in my old life.
Tag Archives: NaPoWriMo
Math and Science
Love is geometry.
Or maybe it is all biology
and electric pulses in our brains.
Possibly algebra where love equals
(a+b2)/2
or something like that some other
poet has calculated to the enth degree.
Whatever it is, I find myself swirling
and so thoroughly steeped
in the euphoria, that I have no need
of oxygen or breathing or anything whatsoever
if it is not him and his overwhelming goodness.
Coffee Creamer
I wasn’t looking, and she added too much creamer.
I drank the coffee anyway,
the sweet liquid coating
my teeth and tongue with a layer
of slick sugar I wouldn’t be able to rid
myself of without a thorough brushing.
Her forearms tensed and flexed
as she balled her nightgown in her fists
and in her lap trying to hide the anxiety,
and I wondered how we had come to this place:
the serving coffee and being anxious
and not meeting each other’s gaze.
We need to talk, she said,
just as I was standing to leave.
I sat back down and waited.
Summer Jewels
She could often be found
admiring the fruits of her labor
in her fully stocked pantry –
mason jars of green beans, corn,
tomato juice, tomato sauce, various soups.
She adjusted their stacked-up lines,
shining jewels in summer colors
waiting to be enjoyed once the cold came in.
Six months after my granny died,
I watched my mother from her kitchen table,
She held the last of the green beans,
having rationed the last ten jars,
knowing that when they were gone
there would be no replacement beans
coming this summer.
Opening the jar, she let tears fall.
Silvery jewels of grief slipping silently
down her cheeks and onto her apron.
She held them up to her nose,
and then quickly dumped them
into the pot on the stove.
The last of the summer jewels
graced our Sunday lunch plates
for a final time.
The Squeeze
We gathered around the worn table,
buttering fresh bread and passing
bowls of buttered peas and mashed potatoes.
I had a horrible dream last night, he said.
I looked up from my peas and watched
him hold back tears, heard his voice
hitch up the octave, and caught a glimpse
of shaking hands before he slipped
them into his lap.
The stoic man of my childhood
has disappeared in the last twelve years,
grandkids change a man apparently.
He was lost, and I couldn’t find him, he said.
He told us how he searched everywhere –
quiet corners, shady stands of trees, the creek.
I yelled for him until my throat was raw.
I looked back at my peas and heard him finally lose
what modicum of control he had left.
But he finally came running down the hill
and threw himself into my arms.
He looked towards the living room,
seeing through the walls,
to where my youngest was silently reading
in a quiet corner with a blanket over his head.
“It was just a dream, Steve,” she said
and reached over to squeeze his hand.
Sarah Stoltzfus Allen 