our whole house used to fit in the dishwasher

who taught you how to be clean?
i have had to cough up a skeleton key
to climb out of my body.
the roof could use some tender love
& care. my dogs sometimes argue.
my old one, left hovering in the living room
without a place to lay down. once,
a hole opened in the ceiling & poured dust
all over my room. i did not clean it.
instead, i wrote my name. left paw prints
as if i were one of the mice in the basement.
the dishwasher died years ago & now 
it is used for doorknobs & other ways out.
i keep dreaming of gutting it to make
a proper portal. sometimes cleaning can be 
a form of blessing. i have tried to bless
all the wall that've held me (some better
than others). i have not always been
a good keeper. some spaces beg to be dirty.
the apartment on union held a mouthful 
of the old tenants. their light scent never fully gone. 
the house here has halos from the its markers. their
mismatched screws. their ugly carpet. 
i hate the warmth after the washing. 
how the machine knows just how to burn
a thumb out of the sky. in a dream my father
is on fire & i have to put him out. i put him
in the dishwasher. in a dream
we are hurricane children again & the town
is blinking on & off. i am an expert 
at making megaliths smaller & smaller
until they can be held & lulled to sleep.
i wash the windows. i wash the doors. i wash
my face until it shines. there is a peephole
on the dishwasher for everyone to look out
& see me with my shoes still on in the house. 
when i open it i know they will scold me.