squinting for stars
Sometimes, she dreams of cleaving from the dishes and recycling,
the millionth swipe of the sponge across a stovetop polka-dotted
with sauce. She imagines deserting forever the pile of untwinned socks,
the Q-tips and Kleenex wads birthing progeny behind the trash can,
the stubborn resin on the soap dish, the hazard of upturned razor blades still sharp enough
to slice a thumb open. For years, she's extracted clean lines from the leavings of others,
feeling the brief satisfaction of her daily ministrations. A practice, some might call it.
But the canvas always looks the same, a pale outline of beauty born of perpetual order.
Certain evenings, the street lights come on and she stands at the doorway, squinting
for stars, relieved to find them exactly where she remembered.