I share a broom with Virginia
and Miriam, I
have not had the pleasure
of either of the two
Green Gate
maids,
but I know
that their knees squeak louder
than mine
and
that
elbow oil lubricates their
twists.
I can tell by
the way they leave
my broom settled
in
corners.
Its
terse whisker
stick
mocks my grip,
my sweeping angle.
I try
to lead our waltz but my
broom laughs at me,
certain of my clumsiness.
We fight for direction
over the
trite,
Tolley boards
of the old Tolley
House.
Mr. Tolley had taken a wife…
Sarah;
a one-legged chicken farm
who burst babies
all over these elderly boards, then
cleaned them
herself as ten of her children
rolled their deathbeds atop.
Virginia and Miriam must
remind my offensive broom
of Sarah.
Sarah and her discipline.
Sarah and her doctrine.
Sarah and her ten dead babies.
I think my broom is in love with Sarah.
It refuses
my suggestive
movements to clear
old dust from the floors.
I have no choice, I decide.
I toss the broom out
to
a patio
that hosted a Tolley family portrait once,
grab my very own electronic
sucking machine
and suck the dead babies
out from
abysmal,
woe coated
slits.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 