and lo, the angel of the house appeared to
buckle, walloped by sponges, poison-soaked with...
well, bacteria is always writhing. If it ain't writhing
it's just dead cells, as i was squeeziting,
the wringing of cloth in basins, like Florence in the Crimea,
inarguably an image of nursing, and who would not rather be nursing
a baby, to contentment, or, an angoustura'd drink?
The woman greeted me as "the sinner from heaven"
a warm smile disconnected from
the direct gaze of the Saved.
i was forced to smile back,
sandbagging arguments against her idea of heaven.
Her daughter corrected my confusion = correcting her mother, "not sitter, mother,
we say Nanny" oh oh, suddenly i am the zenith, which made me squeamish,
being more one with myself in hell.