cleaning house

for q. (and for p. and b., in their time)

here, let me make room.

ever since I learned that you were coming

I’ve had the urge to clean house–

pack up boxes full

of all the things I’ve kept

(for you)

and throw them out.

I already know that you don’t need them,

don’t need me, really

(although it’s in your interest

that I believe you do–

need me, that is–

that I keep seeing myself, my body,

my devotion to you as needed)

you would just as soon

have open space

dis-covered by my letting go,

my emptying, my cleaning house

and I am hungry for it, too:

space, and room, and openness.

every day I look at all these things

and ask: what is there here

that I would not be able to live without?

and every day

the answer pushes out, makes its own way,

makes these tokens of history

obsolete:

just you.

poem (c) 2015 D. Ohlandt

please only reprint in entirety and with credit given

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