Joan Colby- Three Poems

VACUUM

The Hoover roars over the Turkish carpet

Sucking dog hair and cracker crumbs

Into its transparent gut. We can see

How much debris we create in living

Week after week. Flecks of our skin

And dust, the ubiquitous disclaimer,

How everything comes to this. Seen in totality:

An accumulation of fluff

Accessorized with grit. That’s what

We’re made of. 

 

 

 

WASHING DISHES

Froth like pastry.
Assembly of cherubs. The filled sink
Where the gilt-rimmed china
And silver in its Grand Baroque guise
Could drink clarity, could endure being scrubbed
Of the evidence of their living.
Crusts and smears. The grave image
Of sauce or juice. Arms elbow deep
In that wallow erasing
What had to be. What was. Such
Giving and getting. Taste and its ordure.
She washed. He dried.
Their marriage.

  

IRONING

Sprinkle with ammonia, then starch.

The heavy triangle like a snake’s head

Flattens the breast, veers into the collar

So its points are exact equations,

Each sleeve turned

Like a conspirator. Cuffed with rigidity

To imprison the flexing wrist.

Then hung, ready for tomorrow.

Those days were solemn, wrinkle-free

As a wash and wear future she didn’t dream of.

The old iron

Sits upright as a widow

In the curl of its cord. The orifices

That hissed steam clogged

With disuse. She remembers

Pressing, pressing

How good that was.