March 23, 2011

Dory L. Hudspeth


When bad news comes I sweep.
My left hand becomes a pivot
while the right is force
moving across the axis of my body.
It’s a geometric dance.
Grief within form is art.
Other habitual motions
feel like that too. Within
the matrix of porch floor boards
and slatted siding a body sidesteps.
Tiny dust-cumulus rise on each side
of the rhythmic broom.
The worse the news
the more I sweep.

from Rattle #20, Winter 2003

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