Dust to dust

Sweep. Gather dust into heaps while you may. Hear the sound of bristles weeping. Sweep to hear the sound of horsehairs brushing. Sweep to nuzzle to tickle to bristle-me swristle. Sweep to say six-o-three and whistle. Sweep to drip into floating floors adrizzle afizzle. Six-o-six.

In the room where they sit, sweep to gather the sounds of papers before they crumble burning, crisping and sizzling, crackling in dazzling rumbling. Only the sound of clang, sound of strength, a broken paperclip nuzzles against the grain. Six-o-six.

In the kitchen where they sleep, sweep to gather the sounds of peels of onion, of flakes of cereal, of granules of salt, of crumbs of bread, of grains of oat. Only the sound of crisp, sound of crunch against the round of the dustpan. Six-o-six.

In the bathroom where they faint, sweep to gather their hair before it falls afrizzle, curling to dust to ash to dust. Turning from red to brown to grey. Dust clings to hair clings to dust tumbling into tumbleweed clinging to corners of rooms. Sweep to gather the rough scratched-off layers of skin to find bits of me falling, bits of me departing, bits of me dying. Six. Only there is no sound. Of six and hush. When bits of me are thrown against the bottom of the dustheap, they only land soft and silent against the plastic.