dirt, ash, unwilling whale

i’d scrub it; really, i would,

but i don’t want to get the dirt

on my hands.

it exists: the dirt.

on the floor and the walls

and the bottom of my wardrobe.

i hate the mess

but i hate cleaning it even more;

knowing it’s there, putting my hands

in it. the dirt—god, it’s everywhere.

it takes courage to clean.

it takes a hell of a lot of work

to make it go away

when it wasn’t designed to.

it feels like i’ll never be clean.

i could kiss the palms of lady macbeth

and feel like doubting thomas,

but my lips don’t want it.

my body doesn’t want it, viscerally

rejects it, and it exists.

nobody asks: did the whale really want to swallow jonah?

there’s dirt everywhere

and i am not clean.

maybe i won’t ever be clean

until i am no longer lazy and afraid.

i, coward designed, am lazy and afraid.

and so i let it settle. i’ll let it

settle like pompeii, and vow never

to visit ancient rome.

i don’t like ash, either.

July 2022