Cleaning Out
Barbara Daniels
One month after the surgery
I slide my diaphragm into trash
with tampons and pads.
I throw out spent flowers,
sweep up petals
strewn on the floor,
daisies black at their centers,
softened red flowers
scented like cloves.
Leaves in the trees hold up the sky,
touching, not touching. Do trees
want simplicity, each leaf
pulled away? The clothes
I try on are too large for me.
I speak of the dead and the living
and stand at a doorway
between them.
The wild ferns
have darkened and curled.
If I wait long enough, rain
clears, stars rise. Then at last,
the pockmarked moon.
One month after the surgery
I slide my diaphragm into trash
with tampons and pads.
I throw out spent flowers,
sweep up petals
strewn on the floor,
daisies black at their centers,
softened red flowers
scented like cloves.
Leaves in the trees hold up the sky,
touching, not touching. Do trees
want simplicity, each leaf
pulled away? The clothes
I try on are too large for me.
I speak of the dead and the living
and stand at a doorway
between them.
The wild ferns
have darkened and curled.
If I wait long enough, rain
clears, stars rise. Then at last,
the pockmarked moon.