Something Clean

Before anyone was up I found the bleach—

old bottle, cloudy plastic, label gone

to nothing. I pulled on the rubber gloves, each

finger loose and wrong, and got down on

the cold tile. The fumes hit fast.

My eyes watered. I told myself: the spray.

I scrubbed the grout lines. An hour passed.

The grout stayed gray. I did it anyway.

Three hours later the smell's still in my throat,

sitting there like a thing I meant to say—

that particular clean that doesn't coat

anything, just moves the dirt away

to somewhere else. The gloves are on the tub.

I feel better. I can't explain that right.

The bathroom looks the same. I scrubbed.

I needed to finish something. Before light.