ISSUE 11

Deirdre Collins

 

Labor

 

Here is a sacrament, a calendar chore.

 

The damp cloth in hand, the spritz, wipe, polish, and again, and again through the list, memorized or improvised. Countertop, cutting board, kitchen sink—tick tick tick the proper order. Cobwebs in the corners, dust.

 

Habits—order from chaos—physical acts of restoration, care. The windows are doused, buffed, opened wide. Fumes float about in the cross-breeze, linger. Cleanse, exfoliate, obliterate—hydrate and tone—repeat. A moment alone.

 

Here are the toils of least esteem. A curse cast into the mirror, angled just so. Reflection, detection, spotlight. The mess—bastard clutter or body hair—attacked, purged, groomed into submission. Cleanliness and godliness—cuticles, follicles, pores—peroxides and formaldehyde.

 

Scrub into oblivion—out, damned spot! We—the demon at the door? No, such pains in the sorting. No exceptions—the laws hold fast. Long in tooth and claw, perhaps. Another day, another hour, entropy at work.

 

*

 

Here are the stupid, all-consuming efforts of our days—control of space, face, waist. Time beaten back; decay delayed. Here is a model for the keen-eyed observer—spacetime. Do you know your measurements, my dear?

 

Contractions might upset—explore the dimensions of a time and place. Plot the renovation, the extension, the order of things—threaded, glinting—to pin upon the wall. Listen—somewhere out there, the people say there but for the grace of god go I… Or say nothing at all.

 

Rulings—commandments—decrees, leaked or championed or done quietly out of sight. Drop to your knees—consider—piss and vinegar—ammonia—cold water treatments. Home remedies to treat any stain, except the bleed that will not cease.

 

Armies may march, withdraw, or lie in wait—there are hatches to batten, carcinogens to contain, rubble to sweep away. As with storms, floods. After the whistle-wait-boom of artillery, or thunder, or screaming winds, there is the roar of the vacuum—a pause to empty the bag.

 

*

 

Even now, there is laundry going. Dreams of fresh sheets billow at a distance. A long shower will end this. The final purification is its own reward—the well-made bed, the clean towels. There’s ammunition stocked here somewhere, Mama always said.

 

Take stock—a troubled brew, a bad brine—sepsis, child brides, heart on the outside. Basted, beaten, and proofed. Will they search for fetal tissue, for broken bone? Blanche, measure, pour. Follow the recipe—by any means necessary.

 

A strike upon the bell—a sacrament—a calendar chore. Set thine house in order. Bleach porcelain bloodless—pipes, fixtures, gleaming, rustless—toe these fraught, disputed borders—picket fence—conscripted soldiers—idle hands, idle hands.

 

The physics of the crowd, of the wave, of the people in the streets. Catching conditions, these labor movements. Some pestilence out there—the quiet beneath the roar, the whirl of the fan. The taste of cigarette smoke, phosphorus, wildfire in the air.

 

Time to push.

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