by Samantha Lê 

She sweeps evening dust 
off grout lines with the straw 
broom that hangs like sadness 
behind the old fridge. 

Its string-wrapped handle 
understands the pressures 
of her fingertips. It knows 
her weakness and degradation. 

Her tight hips swoosh 
back-and-forth, 
the rhythm of a woman 
with only daily chores 

to occupy her thoughts. 
The only time she looks 
as if she were dancing 
is when she stirs air into dirt.

___

First published in Copper Nickel (University of Colorado Denver), Issue No. 29, Fall 2019, pp. 130.