By Sian Maciejowski
I clean the kitchen with bleach
And solvent made for marble;
I let the bleach touch my skin
And wonder—
Am I soluble?
I remove filth and grime,
Until the surface finds its shine,
And I envy
How easy it is
To cleanse.
I am not wood, nor granite,
I am flesh
And blood,
And bone—
And the flesh is weak.
It spoils itself,
No solvent to rid the stain
Of silent sins.
The kettle boils,
Whistling through the quiet.
I wash the floor;
Scrubbing away the rotting guilt.
In Night’s bone,
I comfort iniquity
With deprivation of sleep;
Confession’s true mouthpiece.
Morning lulls the dirt to settle,
A dust that concedes too easily,
Satisfied with surface clean.
Briefly,
My skin feels redeemed,
But strength wears thin—
A sheep in wolf’s clothing,
Waiting, praying
For this kitchen ritual
To absolve me.
But maybe cleansing is not enough-
Maybe real dirt hides
Beneath the shine,
In thoughts unspoken,
Wounds unhealed—
Buried beneath years of grime.