We work the soap
Into our broken skin
Chipped nails
A catalogue of hours
Time spent drumming
Our fingers
Fumbling along the threadbare
Edges of clothes
It would be good to drive
To the place of our mourning
But we are still
Stuck
Burnt out
Mourning the loss
Of our face
If only we could mend it
Polish it up
Draw a line over the chipped edges
Marks come in the mail
Letters and sentences
We tidy them away
Housekeeping
She calls it
Pushing away old dust
Shining up the new
Our hands are always busy
Our heads too
We long for emptiness
Space
As it is we stand alone
In the confines of our home
Tidying and scrubbing
Keeping house
Collecting words.
