The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2018

Swept Linda Parsons My hands grip handle, pendulum swing on Grandmama’s steps, broom falls apart at the seams. I the broom, the unsewn seam. Her dime gripped, this good job of work swept through time, spending the peace between women and men. I the steps Granddaddy trips, belly beerful, his way undone. I the storm’s eye, this good work, this right on time, for Buffalo nickel or dime. Sweep it gone, this dust of a girl who spins on the head of a pin. I the rust, the splinter, swept under carpet or rug, bone in my arm unable to rest. I the dirt hidden and piled, song for my supper, this house of uneasy belong. Now the woman disturbing the peace, my handle gripped, I the web husband leaves in the eaves, spidering book and shelf. I the broomstraw stuck in his craw, cain raised in cloud of days. I the pendulum sweeping him gone, coin of the realm outspending our fine design. I the hands, the railing tripped, I the seam unknowing the rip. 186 The Meadow