Her new yard broom has a plastic, made-in-China handle,
its bristle mane sits on broad shoulders,
a deep thread seals their partnership.
She stores this one head up
–a lesson from domestic science.
Inside she uses soft locks on a head that falls away
from its wooden handle at a mere knock.
She coaxes hair, pinhead paper pieces,
snipped thread ends to their grave;
leaves this one hanging by its hook.
Sometimes she takes a feather duster
that is not made from feathers, whisks
into corners deep as the last C on the keyboard,
shakes it out, unseen debris floats, falls,
floats –goodbye, she whispers.
Outside she sweeps foot-crushed leaves, infant twigs,
bark crumbs from the deck; the dust drops,
like finely sieved flour, between the planks.
She hides the rest under bushes, ready
for the wind to scatter it behind her back.
