vacuum gut 

i breathe in the dust 
in an attempt to find gold.
or else i am kidding myself.
i know i look for trouble. 
run my tongue across the floor.
here are the paper clip funerals.
then, the eye lash speakeasies.
everyone is hiding something
& i love to clean because
you can find clues on the ground.
once i found a runaway note
from my father
when i was vacuuming 
my parents' house. he said,
"i am a crow now." i put the letter
in my mouth & chewed. 
the body is great at making sense
of debris. i cough whenever
i smell bleach. it is the scent of
"i do not want you to know
what was done here." i have lived
a crime scene life. weeks ago
opening the guts of the vacuum
to find a single tooth. it was 
not my tooth. i know someone
was here gnawing on
the stairs. it has made me
an expert at hiding the seam.
the key must be swallowed 
as a limb. goodbye nighttime.
cloth moved across a greasy stove.
we have been doing nothing
but roasting lamb. by lamb
i mean a child. by a child
i mean myself as a child. 
she sleeps in the oven. peers
out of the door. asks me,
"is it time yet?" i keep working.
wipe down the toilet. the walls.
my own face. once i found
tangles of tinsel. i plucked them
from the innards of the machine.
braided them together. joy is best
kept like this. small & unexpected.
i get on my knees &
continue to worship.