Scrubbing in the Light of Day

She scrubs the floor

when he goes to work

in black suits, in the morning

when she needs

to make herself useful, she follows

a patch of dusty sunshine

across the floor, scrubbing in

the light of day, the mocking brillow-pad

light of day

in circles, she tries

to polish some sunshine

into those floors, she scrubs

She tries - -

Because the night falls

and it's harsher than the day

When he opens the door, lets it in

takes the things she can't give, doesn't want

to give, in the dark, of herself, things she

can't feel anymore, with her body

with her eyes, things she feels so horribly

with her head, with her heart

things she sees - wild horses, orange

tigerlilies, and she pulls for him

her smile, pulls it out

from deep inside, from the roots

deep inside of her

the light she keeps, she gives

to him.  She lies there and smiles, spreading

all the sunlight she has left

across his body, with gleaming

teeth, the whites of her eyes, she gives it

to him, in the darkness

She gives it to him.

It's over, and she walks slowly

to the bathroom alone, she stands

naked in front of the mirror, the window

slips moonlight down over her head

like silk, filmy moonlight, she climbs,

She cries into the shower

leaves the curtain flapping

open, lets the water rain
down onto the floor, tries

to stand, bathed in moonlight

as she scrubs, in circles

And she tries - -
To scrape the night
from her skin.