Keeping House
I often find my truest self
in invitations to over-haul
re-arrange the chesterfield
the ottoman the wingbacks
dust the bookshelves the
family photos the nooks
and crannies neglected
polish the floor wash the
dishes piled on the counter
the richness of tan pennies
chiming in my apron pocket
call me to private reveries
of Cattulla’s silk bedspread
keeping house reciting taut
penetrating poetry into the
urgency of the spin cycle
swirling gyrating orbiting
working into a frenzy then
interrupted abruptly by the
clunk & chime of the cuckoo
clock kids will be home soon
dinner isn’t going to cook
itself – better snap out of it
I often find my truest self
outside of my inauthentic
self recounting the words of
a Latin poet I hate & I love
what ever
would my husband say?
**
Catullus is a poet that is new to me. He was startling
for his time, often explicit in his writings, and while nothing is shocking
these days, it’s always a marvel to stumble upon one of the rebels, who refused
to censor his work or his passions. To speak so overtly is the true rebellion,
to not be afraid, as Chuck Palahniuk once told me, to look like an asshole. (To
this day, that is the best advice I’ve ever been given.)
I look forward to … ahem … exploring more from this poet.
Too hot to really think today but I pecked and that’s
good.
In propinquity,
Nic
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