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      November 10, 2018Sweeping EquationDory L. Hudspeth

      When bad news comes I sweep.
      My left hand becomes a pivot
      while the right is force
      moving across the axis of my body.
      It’s a geometric dance.
      Grief within form is art.
      Other habitual motions
      feel like that too. Within
      the matrix of porch floor boards
      and slatted siding a body sidesteps.
      Tiny dust-cumulus rise on each side
      of the rhythmic broom.
      The worse the news
      the more I sweep.

      from #20 - Winter 2003

      Dory L. Hudspeth

      “Poetry is what lights my fire. Poetry happens to me, mostly in the morning. This thing, spontaneous poetry, is probably better than spontaneous human combustion. It is more socially acceptable, a little less painful, and you can do it over and over again.”

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