My mother hummed, boiled, and stirred...
I drowned potatoes in her tomato soup,
my tongue drenched in red cream
swimming with chicken oil on one summer breakfast.
Lips together in delight,
my heart quickened to say grace
for the gift of a box full of potatoes
that made its way into our home
as quiet as I ate the loneliness of the dining table.

My mother returned, hurried, and stared.
My plate and its friends stared back,
gaping at her surprise by the sink.
I ask if they have eaten, my question
hungry to invite her into my appreciation.
She commands me to wash my dishes
but I salute the sink, order it
to wait by mid-day for its company
in a celebratory wash for a party of one.

But my mother refuses to let me go...
as if the plate will break
if I do not cool it by now.
She spits "Why can't you do it?"
hot in my face. I save myself
and reveal the duty I fulfill
as the family's dishwasher of each day's beginning.

"Your grandmother washed this morning"
picks at my newfound integrity.
My protests wait as I watch her
work rigorously on the plate,
my pride being scrubbed off it.
I watched as she washed all the dishes
that I have washed in all their mornings
in my chest now sinking.
I watched as all the gifts she just gave me
—humble clothes, cool shampoo, smooth cream bath, deep foam cleanser, and floral feminine wash—
all the fragrances I wash myself with
flow towards the drain.

The potatoes turned on their grave,
now green inside my soft sickly cave.

© 𝓙𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓱 𝓖𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓮 𝓟𝓲𝓱𝓸𝓬