Housecleaning Sestina After a Rough Night My night dreams are wild rooms full of old ghosts flickering behind my eyes in odd light— fractals and spirals, broken lines of bones. I hunger for dawn to come, long for the sun, cheer as light streams through blinds, warming the house. Warblers trill and I thrill as coffee clouds steam up my kitchen. Ah, first sip and clouds leave my dizzy brain. Strong brew dispels ghosts; I’m ready to move! Starting with the house— so much cleaning to do. Deep scrubs bring light to stove hood and backsplash. I love the sun, its gleam on Italian tile. Thrilled to hone in, dig in with vinegar and brush, arm bones deep in hot suds, singing of life and clouds, like Joni (but offkey). I chase the sun from room to room, like my sweet cats, ghosting fears along with scum. Down on my knees, light shines like my mother’s smile, here in my house. She taught me to clean, but I fumed at her house- proud ways. Washing split leaves, mixing in bone meal with soil. Her philodendron, the light on the dark green. So tall–up to the clouds I thought then, and I wondered whether ghosts would climb down. Such an odd child, head in sun- drenched dreams of exotic lands. Would the sun still blaze in other worlds? Were there houses where parents were happy at home? No ghostly late-night cries? I had dreams of pirates, bones rattling. But I was brave! Odd, though. Cloudy with worries. I always lost glasses—light hazy in my eyes. I yearned to win, to light up the sky. But there I was, cleaning each Sunday. Didn’t know then what I had. Longings cloud our eyes, blind us. I loved nooks in our house, cypress bushes in front. My best friend’s bony legs. Now, I daydream and clean, clearing ghosts. Mother’s ghost still shimmers in sun. I’m house-proud now, and like her, I add bone meal to plants (but don’t wipe the leaves). I shoo away clouds; I seek light right here.
Midnight Rebellion Villanelle When bad news comes, it falls dark and heavy, while we swim through fog, while we reach for clouds. We do not speak of the toll that’s levied. We run on the beach, we throw confetti into fog while we sing offkey and loud— though when bad news comes, it falls heavy. We could submit, of course, to deities If we believed. If we kept our heads bowed. We will not speak of the toll that’s levied. We scheme, yes, like old Machiavelli And bargain hard—or rail, scream, cry. Not proud of the way we take bad news. It’s heavy to hear. But we will carry on, heady with life and all it brings. Seek joy, unbowed, and do not speak of the toll that’s levied Let’s dance in San Francisco’s streets, ready to drum, to dream, to seize each moment, bound in good and bad, maybe dark and heavy, sometimes gold, like the fortune of Getty. We’ll fight, no stone unturned, no ills allowed. We all know bad news falls, dark and heavy— we will not speak of the toll that’s levied.
Angie Minkin is an award-winning San Francisco-based poet who stands on her head for inspiration. Her work has been published in The MacGuffin, Rattle, The Poeming Pigeon, The Unbroken Journal, and several others. She is a coauthor of Dreams and Blessings: Six Visionary Poets and her poems have been included in Fog and Light, San Francisco through the Eyes of the Poets Who Live Here and Pandemic Puzzle Poems. Her chapbook, Balm for the Living, is forthcoming in 2023. When not writing, she practices yoga, takes dance classes, and travels to Oaxaca, Mexico, whenever possible. Learn more at www.angieminkin.com.
Grand Little Things 