cleansing

i always read about these cleanses people go on, wherein they imbibe things that clean out the insides of their bodies. it works for some, and i won't knock it, but i personally figure that nature works well enough on its own.

no, my cleansing is cleansing of the household. there's a good bit of cleaning to be done, and with the day stretching like a waking cat before me, i find myself lingering in front of the computer, knowing that this is another part of my cleaning--just like restocking the paper towels in the kitchen, i need to get out on paper the little beasts that live inside my mind.

one of my housemates, a seventeen-pound mass of short white fur, gingery-tabby spots, and a rumbling purr, is trying to annex my lap. why he only wants to do this while i type is beyond me, but in deference to his random affection, i'm going to type fast and then try to fill his cuddle tank, just like i often ask dan to fill mine with an even spent leaning together on the couch.

at any rate, the carpet is vaguely crunchy and in need of vacuuming, and the kitchen is a mess. i suppose it's a cycle that will go on forever, just like the sun coming up every darn morning.

then again, i welcome the sun each day, and i suppose in the end that it's cathartic to clean up the outer areas of my existence, and do some internal straightening, too.

hair

grandma

i remember when you lost your hair
all the wispy silver twirls, whirling
at your nape.

you were scared, i think, because you thought
it signaled
the end.

my sister and i found a hat for you, blue denim.
it made your eyes
pop
out of pale face, startling and lovely.

by the time your hair grew back, the circle
was complete: your hair in pure white curls,
pressed into the pillow
as you died. quite morbid, that thought.

i'll endeavor to forget
all that hair, sprouting anew, and instead
recall the easter hat, and your smiling eyes.

***

cousin

when i was young i slept in your room, on your
waterbed, when we visited. my parents
sat outside the room, your room, which had
no door. at the table they drank black coffee and told
off-color jokes, things i shouldn't have heard. i think
they hoped i slept, or thought i did. leftover perfume
on your comforter, the steady pipe of smoke from your
mother, my aunt. it was dim in the room and i could
see little--i don't remember the color of the blanket,
or the carpeting, nothing. just the light between table legs,
and your picture, near the closet--the crinkle of smiling cheek,
the blonde feathered locks, which you'll be losing, come Monday.

***

red

when i was a child i longed
for darkest, sleekest, wavy midnight--
but it all remained, this rust.

it's thick--it always has been. things have
changed, though--names that childhood bullies chose
evolved
into red-haired woman: the stigma of passion,
desire, temper, fire.

i blame my genetics for this hair--what
else?
there is no box from which i pour this color.
as i age it fades, slowly, a dense auburn.
twined about are thick fishing lines--
bleached with age, heavier than the rest.

in time it will all wash away, and all the names
that cracked pride like dry tinder
will be forgotten, gone gray as ash.