she was always quite good at sweeping
bringing all out into the open
brushing the hidden things into piles
until they were captive in the stark white dustpan
but
one day
black cloaked beings dashing about
angry like swallowed flies
washed-up crocodiles
under falling oak trees
white pearls lingering over the beat of a strained heart
tarnished brass glistening in a relentless sun
gravy spilling down a white tablecloth
purple footprints across the dark sand
the screaming honk of a train hurtling past a burning city
water pipes bursting
blood spurting from a soft stone well
a rooster’s desperate plea
willing the sun to rise
just one more time
her fears entered
and never left
never stopped creeping in
accumulating in the dark crevices
too many to sweep up with the dustpan