Spring Cleaning

It wasn’t the acetone or cotton swab, 
dish soap and sponge, 
not the bleach and borax I dreamed of 
drinking
while I was doing laundry, not the Tide pen
or Pine-Sol 
I needed to wash the porcelain (the skylight caught 
in the mouth 
of a tin mug); 

a Steller’s Jay on the sill 
watches me 
watch him shimmy in the suds of morning,
his bright blue plumage 
riding
the wind’s slight tilt as he tilts in 

and out, 
carrying news of acorns and worms 
to the congregation 
of clouds, he could find a nest or hitch 
a ride on a hawk 
as it ladles the sky with its wings, 
return with one 
fell swoop, but I want him 

close to me, close enough 
to feel his pulse 
against my cheek…he’s greedy, 
eating all the scraps 
I’ve left for him; I want 

not to be the bird 
but the dish 
from which he pecks
and pecks—
made clean by something so persistent 
I take it to be love.