Housekeeping

House Keeping



Dad built the red-brick house
with his own hands
which meant it was someone else’s job
to keep it clean. Mom taught school
until she retired early,
while a succession of house keepers
and nurses dumped bleach in the toilet
in the blackening bathroom, loaded
and unloaded the dishwasher,
ducked the cobwebs.
Ms. Crossin lived with her
forty-five year old son,
believed the Earth was flat,
and the moon landing was filmed
in Arizona. She was older
than Dad, but that didn’t stop her
from putting in her teeth to flirt.


She smelled of copper and sweat,
deep-fried hotdogs split down
the middle and stuffed with cheese
for lunch or sent me on my bike to buy
barbecue downtown. She threw out
all of Mom’s papers
she could find one day, said we were
too old to still be thinking about that,
and climbed into my bed
if I lingered in the mornings.
She asked questions
I couldn’t answer or understand.
Once, she wore nothing
but a raincoat to work.
I hid in my bedroom until Dad
came home late that night.
The morning after I was caught
stealing from the IGA store
she found me sulking in my room,
backed me into a corner, and yelled,
“Do you think nobody loves you?”
with greedy eyes
that hovered around my face like gnats.


C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Subtle Tea