To Clean the World

No map lines exist on earth’s surface.
Under theatrical skies,
soil, rocks, oceans co-mingle
and
algae and fungi stretch together
from pole to pole;
however,
a slanted fence stands between
the town of Douglas stripped with malls
and Agua Prieta
with dust-coated shacks,
hiding
soundtracks of world beat,
air-thinned desires,
and misplaced mothers.

Aromas,
Chanel No. 5, Ambush, Miss Arpel,
Lilac, wildflowers, frying onions,
ammonia, soapsuds, detergent, magnolia,
flaunt their riveting flair,
drifting through borders,
building bridges,
and crossing over barricades
where barbed wires stand at rapt attention
to patriarchal myths
still fearful
of Virginia Woolf.

When divisions and egos take over vulnerable lives
to lynch spirits,
to limit labor,
or to tuck curfews inside throats,
determined soprano voices
leak out of chadors,
prison bars,
and savage lashings,
to object to stonings,
executions,
dollhouse promises,
or lines in the sand
tightly drawn
to cover heads.

Even if minds are cudgeled
and, like layers of saplings,
graves lie
next to each other,
in fashion, wearing
shadows of pens gone underground,
women,
braced with power and grace,
once more,
line burkas with perfume to throw them to the wind,
and, banging pots and pans,
chant in solidarity,
believing, one day soon,
they can
clean the world
from top to bottom
and erase boundaries,
so
duet, choir, and symphony
can never turn solo
again.