Sweeping
By Jennifer Stewart Miller
Anything she could sweep, my mother swept— dust, dog hair, sand, cereal, snow. Natural brooms, always—corn or straw—bristles that abrade like hearts with all the cleaning up, wearing into the wave-shape of their daily swishes. Chain-store stock, blue-handled brooms to sweep up blue things—anger, lies, sickness, secrets, grief. A difficult moment is a good time for a broom— as is a birthday, a baby, a party. Joy’s a squall, a scatter, a spill, a bit of dropped luck. Whisk up every grain and crumb while you can, in case you, too, collapse between refrigerator and stove and can’t get up. Now that my mother can’t do it herself, I sweep where she points. But last week on the porch, there were leaves— and a broom. I caught her just as she let go of her walker and reached out her arms.
Jennifer Stewart Miller is the author of Thief (2021), winner of the 2020 Grayson Prize, and a chapbook, The Strangers Burial Ground (Seven Kitchens Press, 2020). Her poems have appeared in Poet Lore, RHINO, Salamander, Tar River Poetry, Verse Daily, and elsewhere, and have received multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations.
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Tender, precise and skillful poem!! I will share this with students.
So lovely.