Encrusted in the corner, thirteen years’
resignation and leftovers nibbled
on by mites and her son’s muffled demurs—
he lives not on bread alone, but chewed words
unturned, unlike the rounds he makes around
the flat—enchained unto bed frame, his sake.
I squeeze wet sponge with soap and scrub annul
long layers pent, rust-toned spirit bits break,
resist a cringe at dirt congregating
on kitchen floor doing their liturgy,
they are offerings in exchange for nothing
but every gift rotten and good deceased;
finally, first light—a grey tile like night dissolved to dawn—sore arms lift in delight.