LISSA MOORE
The Broom
The broom rests in its place in the corner
All my life I could sweep
and always there would be more to clear away
It is a mystery to me
how each day the world gathers
these small grey clouds
and the floor, every exposed thing is
fogged with all the whimsy, all the unravelling
of fabric and skin and hair
animals, grass, collective mud
all from this one day
and still the air
goes winking, falling past
What will my children remember
of this woman? sweeping sweeping
forever coaxing the dust into greater clouds
only to start again
Let the floor be for dancing
Let the books lie under their dust
until they are read
Let the broom fall
by the open door