" Cleaning Woman’s Hands," and "Within"

Cleaning Woman’s Hands My hands have held writing in its palms, but I think they create dirty drawings from the bathrooms I clean. Each time, I erase the mishaps, the mistakes left in and outside of toilet bowls. I spray fresh products to give a lasting effect, let my hands write through my tears as I touch what smells, what feels disgusting while I wear disposable gloves. I flush fear down the hole for hope to rise up after waste particles are removed. My hands have held writing, so I remember the scrapes, the scrubs, the scratches. I take in the many messes my story brings. I will not discard parts, replace all weighted pictures. Imperfections reveal the poet within me where I take my dirt, my stains, build a steeple, a beautiful painting with words as the main character. The chaos I come out of stays stuck on my hands. I will not rinse them off for anyone. Within My tower, my body has felt torment, a tornado. I want to escape dominating doors of doom, but I have dogs licking my wounds. I have taken alligator bites as they float in massive swamps. They swam on bruises for this heart not to be able to bend. Dreary dreams seem to drive me, drag me into the pit. Like a tilting tower without its peak, my soul peels pain, a banana, plants peace inside Earth’s soil. I share solitude with the solar system, soak the stars as soap for sorrow. I sit in a chair to change my choices from hatred to love. It comes with its challenges though. Plays a song on a violin, a stringed instrument that provides instructions to my struggles, helps straighten out my missing notes. The key I keep connected with my heart can jam, and I have difficulty opening the door, yet once I enter, the stage is mine. Away with the terrors which were trying to tempt me to surrender. They are gone. I fit faith on my wrist. I do not have to fight physically. I become wiser after I chase chastisers head-on by blocking bondage within. Traci Neal