Mother, Washing Dishes

She rarely made us do it --
we'd clear the table instead --
so my sister and I teased
that someday we'd train our children right
and not end up like her, every meal stuck
with red knuckles, a bleached rag to wipe and wring.
The one chore she spared us: gummy plates
in water greasy and swirling with sloughed peas,
gobs of egg and gravy.

                           or did she guard her place
at the window? Not wanting to give up the gloss
of the magnolia, the school traffic humming.
Sunset, finches at the feeder. First sightings
of the mail truck at the curb, just after noon,
delivering a note, a card, the least bit of news.

Susan Meyers, Tar River Poetry (Fall, 2008)