Cleaning

Scrubbing baseboards
is what I do
can’t write
can’t think
-or can’t not-
about your little ragdoll body
in my arms
that last car ride
as David drove through fog
and my deep heaving sobs
your sweet face staring
back at my pained one
I could see the reflection
of myself in both your green eyes
told myself to remember
that image
me in you
surrounding me
who thought such a small
chirp would bring such comfort
and then grief
who knew that all
I would be able to do
after three months
is to clean
sweep out corners,
one by one
your tufts of fur wafting
out of hiding
as I kneel
this cleaning a prayer
the only one I can muster
still seeing your prone body
breathing labored
the wave sweeping through me
then and now
my guilt at what I did or didn’t
all pointless now
except to move me through
this loss of you
kneeling on the bare floor
tears staining clean my cheeks
the wooden slats
not cleaning you away
just clearing the space
so I can see you completely
everything pure, you were
and are
to me
still.