by Melissa Balmain
“Swedish death cleaning [is the] tradition of decluttering and organizing one's life before passing away.” —The Spruce
My junk had piled up for years
wherever I could shove it.
Decluttering? Just not my thing—
and yet, this week, I love it.
So long, old pamphlets, pens, receipts,
and shirt with half a collar!
Hello, bare floors and empty drawers!
I’ve triumphed over squalor!
I used to think I’d never need
to death-clean like the Swedish;
no midlife ill had goosed my will
to keep my closets neatish.
Whose symptoms of mortality,
whose fast-approaching coffin
and crumbling bone, if not my own,
could make me tidy often?
Now as our nation’s vitals teem
with metastatic cancer
for which a cure is far from sure,
I’ve finally got my answer.
wherever I could shove it.
Decluttering? Just not my thing—
and yet, this week, I love it.
So long, old pamphlets, pens, receipts,
and shirt with half a collar!
Hello, bare floors and empty drawers!
I’ve triumphed over squalor!
I used to think I’d never need
to death-clean like the Swedish;
no midlife ill had goosed my will
to keep my closets neatish.
Whose symptoms of mortality,
whose fast-approaching coffin
and crumbling bone, if not my own,
could make me tidy often?
Now as our nation’s vitals teem
with metastatic cancer
for which a cure is far from sure,
I’ve finally got my answer.
Melissa Balmain edits Light, America's longest-running journal of comic verse. Her latest book of poetry is Satan Talks to His Therapist (Paul Dry Books).
