GOD'S HOUSEWIFE PAYS A VISIT

by Michelle Rogge



Mary Rose cleans house as no one else could.
A plain silver cross swinging from her bony spinster neck,
She strides up our walk in an unswerving line
(No forgotten husband/child-related errands
to make her hesitate),
Shoulders so thin and horizontal
Plump wives and widows wince.
She wears a practical calico dress that,
Unforeseen, complements her steel blue eyes.

Mary Rose lets me sweep and then she sweeps again,
Then gets down on hands and knees and scrubs
Every inch of our cracked kitchen linoleum.
It is filthy when she starts and shining clean when she stops.

In her vacuumous search for cobwebs and hidden dirt,
She shoves aside sofas with soul-shaking pushes,
Silent,
Single-mindedly seeking out the sins of our house.

Mom comes home from work to find
The house has confessed every sin.
Its soul is shining clean
(Except for my room, where I find
Toys piled high on my bed in a reproachful heap).

In dreams I see Mary Rose in her fair maiden house
Barren yet blessed, Catholic and pure.
I imagine the mountains she moves with her prayers.