Keep your mouth shut, little bitch. Ain’t nothing you got to say that means nothing important. Get on your knees and scrub the floors clean, clean, ever clean. Every crack and crevice, nook and cranny need special attention. Your sharp eye and a toothbrush ought to do the trick.
Today. Silence surrounds. Schk-Schk-Schk. But even in silence there’s a rhythm that can’t be denied. You can’t pull yourself away from it. There. A speck you missed. Shut your fucking mouth and get to work.
It’s squalid, all so dirty. Rags tied to your knees. Fingers nearly bloody. Schk-Schk-Schk. Tears rolling down, splash onto cracked knuckles. Are your hands filthy too? Get up, worthless disgusting bitch. Wash and scrub the filth away. Best wash again just to be sure. “Perhaps….” No. Shut your mouth.
Silence. Overpowering all-consuming silence. How long would it take to count each grain in the wood flooring, I wonder? Drop to your knees. Pick a beautiful dark ring. Place a finger gingerly there. Follow it. Trace it. It’s curving path is without reason and yet somehow clean and perfect.
Deep sigh. Silence reigns but for the sshhh-whp, sshhhh-whp as your knees follow your clean fingertip. 72. 73…..74. Sshhh-whp, sshhh-whp. Sunset. You can nearly hear it as it drops below the horizon. Silence. ssshhh-whp. Don’t stop, little bitch. Tomorrow the sun will rise and shed light on the unwashed floor behind you.
tara caribou | ©2019
... from a silent space
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