Violeta Garcia-Mendoza

INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE STAY-AT-HOME POET

Put away the dishes, wipe the counters, sweep
the tumbleweeds of dog hair off the floor; move

as if the fear this work would keep you bound,
useless, adrift, forgotten, weren’t lodged stiff

between your lungs. The mirror fogs beneath
your breath, no matter what you ask of it.

Time bares its metal teeth, tick ticks the list
of things you could have, should have done and been.

Once wilder, now the chimney swift will nest
in any of a house’s narrow pockets—

winged things survive on less sky than you think.
Some stains settle; still, some lift. Let the ink

sit, soak in it, seek some subversive sonnet;
sort the laundry, pair the socks in couplets.