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Poem
by Heather Matesich


How To Clean Practically Anything

Whenever possible, blot up spills immediately.
With children’s fruit drinks, one has only minutes
before the stain sets permanently. A poppy
blooming on the living room floor.

Alone, I stretch out on the bed, pointing my legs.
A two barreled rifle. There are footsteps.
He says “projectile vomit,” and I laugh.
“It’s not funny,” he maintains. “It’s a mess.”

Many people prefer frequent, systematic light cleaning
to periodic upheaval. Daily: polish the shower curtains;
weekly: water the eyelashes; monthly: fold the tampons;
annually: paste the clipped coupons into the coffin.

Mother believed “crap” was a swear word.
Mother said, “We don’t use that kind of language.”
Now there’s waxy build-up on the spoons,
and fossil fuels are overflowing shoe boxes.

Hold onto whipped cart horses. If everything is kept
organized, it will be easier to work in your space.
Where is the file folder labeled “Hair Removal”?
Who has been drinking the pickle juice?

He wants me to shave his back and rub his beard.
He wants a side of pork with his ham and steak.
He believes in canine teeth. He believes in gravy.
I watch the oven’s red eye, waiting for it to close.

If you decide to use professional help,
ask for a referral from reliable neighbors. If that fails
check the Yellow Pages under Housecleaning.
Always ask for and check hospital corner.

There are red lipstick stains on the pickle jar.
I take the ring off and looked at the thin, white skin.
It is shiny there—like a scar. Or a just-peeled onion.
I shave my legs. I wonder where the hair has gone.

found text from How To Clean Practically Anything, ed. Edward Kipel, Consumer Reports Publishing, 4th edition, 1996.