Hardwood By Katie Pukash


I sweep the floor twice a day.
Hardwood is funny like that,
always knowing which soles to bear
and which to borrow.

I am going to be sorry for this-
for the dirt I have created.
So much sweeping.

Everything in our apartment is unused.
I wish I could say the same about myself.
Pristine- Acetone- Spotless-
My palms have aged,
more olive orchard than apple tree.

I found out today that I am a Pisces Moon.
I do not know what this means,
but I read articles supposedly about myself
and wonder if the bathtub is done filling.

There is a gap in between the floorboards
and our bedroom door.
They will never meet faces,
brush elbows.
Unless I release the hinges,
snap the screws,
say goodbye to the stain,
nourish all the wood back to its birthplace.

Trees never die of old age.
My living room floors died
of a broken heart.
I think.
I guess that is what happened.

My broom broke yesterday.
There is so much dirt now,
collecting, gathering, keeping.
I am not going to be sorry for this.
I am not going to be sorry for this.

By Katie Pukash


Katie Pukash is a writer and poet based in Boise, Idaho. Her work has appeared in Ink&Nebula, Breadcrumbs Mag, Yay! LA, among others. She was a member on the 2013, 2014, and 2018 Boise Poetry Slam Team and competed at the National level representing Idaho. She currently has two self published chapbooks.

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