Spring Cleaning
by Ellen Jacob
I wish I could scrub the inside of my skull.
Scrape the plaque off the walls,
plunge my hand into a tub of hot, soapy water
and scour the bone like bathroom tiles.
While I’m at it, I’d wash my brain, too--
reach down into the crevices and
release the loose hair and stale air
that had long since made their home there.
Unclogged, I’d hose out each and every groove and grout,
water rushing down in tiny little streams,
carrying with it all the old dirt and debris.
I’d scale down to the sockets,
plant both feet just above the optic nerve and pop!
One ball then the other springs free.
I’d take the sleeve of my shirt and polish each orb 'til they gleamed
like plastic, empty dolls’ eyes ready to see.
Clean! Clean!
Bye-bye to the gunk, the junk, the funk of years past
and the buzzing, the gnawing, the aching of those to come.
Scrape the plaque off the walls,
plunge my hand into a tub of hot, soapy water
and scour the bone like bathroom tiles.
While I’m at it, I’d wash my brain, too--
reach down into the crevices and
release the loose hair and stale air
that had long since made their home there.
Unclogged, I’d hose out each and every groove and grout,
water rushing down in tiny little streams,
carrying with it all the old dirt and debris.
I’d scale down to the sockets,
plant both feet just above the optic nerve and pop!
One ball then the other springs free.
I’d take the sleeve of my shirt and polish each orb 'til they gleamed
like plastic, empty dolls’ eyes ready to see.
Clean! Clean!
Bye-bye to the gunk, the junk, the funk of years past
and the buzzing, the gnawing, the aching of those to come.
Ellen Jacob graduated from Trinity College Dublin in 2022 with a degree in English Literature and Film Studies. She takes a particular interest in body horror and magical realism. She currently resides in Dublin, where she works in film journalism.