From the book IDENTITY THEORY by DOROTHY WALL Sweeping We live under the litter of the eucalyptus. I can’t sweep it out of my mother’s bed or the pockets of my children. Leaves like scythes, tin-green and fragrant, dirt funnels always surprising me. The side yard, the front yard, upper yard, the rooms inside. People arrive at my door while I sweep, people I know from earlier times, men and women and children in their suits and dresses with their faces that say, ‘here we are,’ men who forgive me when I kiss them, though I’ve done nothing to forgive, my own children who stare at me, wondering if they’re mine, smiling and shifting feet. I hold my broom, uncertain who to greet.
Posted on: Tue, 18 Jun 2013 05:58:02 +0000
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