Every few months
we move the sofa
oil the countertops
throw out the old plants.
Down on our knees
we scrub, we stand,
paint the doors
blues & reds & purples,
put on a record,
dance slowly
to obscure Brazilian
ballads in phonemes
we do not recognize.

We mop the floors,
dust & jut our hips
at houseplants
we shuffle
like children into
corners of a house
we do not own..
We do not speak,
but cleanliness
is a language
we both understand.
Broom is our therapist.

The scene is a Felini film,
opaque, baroque, black,
white, delightfully obscene.
Absurd catastrophe looms
in the supply cabinet,
but it’s with great bravado
we duck pilgrim crossings.
Go slow. Scenes take time
to play out on screen.
Only when the floor shines,
the cobwebs are cleared
from the baseboards,
the scum scrubbed
from the windowsills
can we finally fall
into one another
like Rome to the fire.