Julia Alvarez (b. 1950)

How I Learned to Sweep

My mother never taught me sweeping...

One afternoon she found me watching

t. v. She eyed the dusty floor

boldly, and put a broom before me, and said she'd like to be able

to eat her dinner off that table,

and nodded at my feet, then left.

I knew right off what she expected

and went at it. I stepped and swept:

The t. v. blared the news; I kept

my mind on what I had to do,

until in minutes, I was through.

Her floor was as immaculate

as a just-washed dinner plate.

I waited for her to return

and turned to watch the President,

live from the White House, talk of war:

in the Far East our soldiers were

landing in their helicopters

into jungles their propellers

swept like weeds seen underwater

while perplexing shots were fired

from those beautiful green gardens

into which these dragonflies

filled with little men descended.

I got up and swept again

as they fell out of the sky

I swept all the harder when

I watched a dozen of them die...

as if their dust fell through the screen

upon the floor I had just cleaned.

She came back and turned the dial;

the screen went dark. That's beautiful,

she said, and ran her clean hand through

my hair, and on, over the window-

sill, coffee table, rocker, desk,

and held it up--I held my breath--

That's beautiful, she said, impressed,

she hadn't found a speck of death.

Questions for Discussion:

How does the speaker know "right off what she expected" as if her mother never taught her sweeping?

Where and why does the author use rhyme?

What does sweeping mean? Explore the different connotations of the word.

What do the last two lines tell you about the speaker's mother?