Celeste Never Does the Dishes
as they pile up to the ceiling
conducting orchestras
of soot and grime
an obstacle neglected
Celeste never does the dishes
there on the coast of Lisbon
as the salt air swells
through the windows
and fills the sun-stained veranda
marking all it touches for death
Celeste never does the dishes
as the chemicals redistribute
and her hair, a tangled labyrinth
crowds the corners of her eyes
she brushes it away
Celeste never does the dishes
not since the leave changed colors
not since late september
when the results came in
when all the swimming universe
all infinite, invisible
awesome, swirling fantastic
banter-driven majesty
crashed into the median
of her wide-eyed, tangled head
Celeste never does the dishes
she sits in quiet reverence
assessing the entitlement
the construct of her body
the gut to never swell
the cry to never peal
the hands to never grip
no dawn to break
no smile to collapse
Celeste never does the dishes
she cries, for days and nights
without a clear understanding of why
Celeste never does the dishes
they sit, immovable, the rock
of gibraltar, kilimanjaro
shouting, spewing hatred
condemnation on the growing
inadequacy, stipulations
of a jilted reality
refusing transcendence
rejecting reinforcement
there, as real
as the hair on her hands
the heat of her breath
the residue of her makeup
manifest and manifold
cackle in the dark
whispers of how the world will end
Celeste never does the dishes.
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