Spotless

I am cleaning the kitchen today,
and you tuck ‘finally’ behind your teeth
so that it doesn’t peek out to greet me.
I have arranged the sludge of this self into a body
substantial enough to wear rubber gloves,
to pretend I can’t notice my skin itching.
One day, I will mop this floor,
and take this pooling sadness with it.
Today, I try not to look
at the scattered debris, proof that we
are still living, and eating, and struggling,
and leaving behind small mountains
of crumbs when we cut the bread.
I let them embrace the vacuum with a roar,
spray the sides, wipe limescale from the tap
that clings like the remnants of raptured slugs.
The cloth glides as though over ice.
I make the metal shine anew,
empty the burnt ends of former things
from the toaster, scrub at blackened hobs.
The bleach faintly grasps at my throat.
After I leave the countertop gleaming,
I wrap bows around every cupboard handle,
sun myself with this offering of cleanliness.
I lie on bare floors; I bask in absence.
I open the window so the room can breathe.

Alex Howe is a queer poet currently residing in Brighton. Their work has recently appeared in Pilot Press’ Queer Anthology of Wilderness, multiple Eggbox Publishing anthologies, Spit Poet Zine, Just Snails?! and Persephone’s Daughters. They currently write for rrramble blog. Follow their work on Instagram @alexhowewrites or at www.alexhowewrites.wordpress.com

Artwork by Noor Althehli