They say things come easier in pairs:
Body parts, marriages, games.
Even those that do not require
Symmetry. But when it comes to
Cleaning the kitchen floor,
I prefer one hand, particularly
The right. Some distractions
Are worth tending to.
And there is no use
Ignoring any of them.
We only have this moment
To imprison the freedom
Of our migrant knowledge.
The left has just to be
As preoccupied as the other.
Like every young, troubled lover’s
Solution: Cut him some slack.
Cut her some flowers.
But despite the scattering of salt,
Pepper, onion skin and oil,
The floor is a guarded wisdom:
Love becomes stranger
To those who think
They know it too well.
I may have no dialect, no gift
As enduring as marble or linoleum
But I know of the hundred peso bill
Underneath the stove. Its worth,
Its apparent, minuscule loss
In a purse or leather wallet.
I will keep mum about it.
And this Saturday, when I scrub
The kitchen floor with a dirtied
Sponge, I will reach for the money,
My body an inch from the floor,
Getting closer, almost like in worship,
In surrender or in perverted delight,
My other hand void of anything
So as to clutch my chest with
And feel my heart beating fast.