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.
