The Goddess Washes Dishes
She washes them by hand – she wants to feel
This quintessential part of life, this scrubbing away
Of assemblages of coal, garlic, potato skin,
the peeling of of gossamers of grease,
this unraveling of everything
that baked inside the bottom of the pan,
refused to let go. She scrapes it all away,
she lets it soak, she hums along with the tintinnabulation
of water meeting water, pooling redolent, scented
with the dulcet smell of pomegranate soap.
She breathes it in, finds peace in this dance
Of hands and sponge and dinner plate,
And salad bowl. She sighs with satisfaction
As the flip on the garbage disposal
swallowing everything that ever ailed her
Down its hatch with a mellifluous groan.
I can't say I'm incredibly proud of any of my poems, but some do show promise. Let May be the month of picking up the pieces, of finding something beautiful in these shards.