dustpan

i collect our butterflies when they are
banana-ripe. a television is saying,
"buy one get one half off." it is talking
about lips. a hailstorm comes
& puts craters in all the new cars.
i try to call my health insurance agent 
to talk about armageddon. "are you ready?"
i ask & then i clarify, "i am not here
to preach, i am here to learn about 
your chaos self." they hang up but i stay 
on the line fishing for an angel. 
none arrive. when i sweep the house i feel
like a clover. thank god for tools. 
the shovel & the rug beater. i sit
on the porch alone when i am angry. 
i try my best to turn all that anger 
into feathers. stuff a pillow. call my brother
to talk about everything except for 
how we feel about each other. two moons
orbiting a dead planet. the house is never clean enough.
one day when no one else was home
i came with my knuckles 
& a jar of salt. i rubbed & rubbed.
red & raw. there is still dirt 
on the baseboard that refuses to come free.
maybe the dirt is part of us. i look in the dustpan
& i see gold. glitter. a school of dead flies. 
i keep the dust in a little bowl beneath
the bed. i know if anyone found it
they would scream & toss the contents 
out into the yard where the rats held
their makeshift funerals. always i would shift
in the weeds to try to find what was left.
we lose a lot of skin. we lose a lot of hair.
enough to make duplicates. autumn selves 
to put into infomercials. i am not sure
if i am a product or a salesperson today.
which one is worse? that is what i am.
i stand & wait for the delivery truck
to bring me a toad. i am going to feed him
some of the flies & then maybe we will
be friends. i will carry him on my shoulder
& introduce him as my son. i mean he would be
my son after all. let's not get carried away.
the butterflies taste like iron. when my father 
finally arrive with his own broom
we will have a party of trying to make
one another clean. i remember even if 
he has forgotten. i have a dustpan 
full of hair to prove it. It's easier
not to tell the truth, that way no one is waiting
for a prophecy. i keep my oracles 
to myself. i spend years eating alone. 
today in the dust i find a beetle. she is holy. 
i promise her to keep her secrets.
she tells them to me & then becomes 
nothing more than a shining piece of flesh.