All the people that I am
in disarray before the sink
excuse me

The world is swirly and I am
exhausting time before the sink
betrays me

Low rays of dusk show I am
piercing pane, illuminating cracks
within me

Disputed border where I am
in demand before the sink
detains me

Another person that I am
sinks deep into a fireside chair
a rest me

This poem was written in response to a Facebook post from a friend about how motherhood felt like it revolved around the kitchen sink. That the state of the dishes somehow reflected the state of life, even if you insist that it doesn’t; that the unwashed dishes held her hostage to a perpetual sense of failure; and that the constant demands from her children made it so difficult to ever complete the task which would so quickly be undone anyway. 

I wrote this to try and process her reflections, and as an act of empathy. I do my share of dishes, but I don’t experience the same gendered dynamics that create this so-mundane but destructive perfect storm.