I arrange the kitchen chairs like I’m hosting
a small theatre performance. My mind drifts
to Regency-era estates: lords on all fours,
miming Bengal tigers in games of charades.
I fill a steam mop with water, listen
for its distinctive hiss. The mist settles
and I worry the floor will be slick
for hours, stocking-feet children
miming Lipinski’s triple lutz.
Why do women clean? I recall Leviticus,
husbands forbidden to pass dinner dishes
to unclean wives–a woman’s hunger
like a tchotchke on a shelf, caked in dust.
What makes me clean? My Lord
on all fours, washing my feet.