Doing Dishes
April 29 2010


The kitchen, as always
the warmest place in the house.
Hot water
on winter hands,
the sudsy tub, a bubble bath,
a warm emollient.

The window over the sink, steaming-up,
our reflection air-brushed
gone.
In the 40 watt glow, we talk,
two solitudes, softening
in the warmth of soapy water.
Doing dishes
we are easy, unguarded,
confessors, and co-conspirators
repairing the world,
re-inventing ourselves,
being of help.

Perhaps it’s that all the real work is done,
so time no longer rules.
Or the intimacy of steam, and heat,
the comforting sound
of running water.
Or could it be order
restored,
quiet, cooperative, methodical?
The simple virtue
of clean.

Dishes drying on the rack
neatly stacked,
the squeak of glass
rinsed and glistening
pleases me.
There’s the mindless task.
There’s the intimacy of hands
in warmly softened water;
winter skin soothed
faces flushed.

There’s the safety
of this small bright place
in the cold, and darkness.
Where no one overhears us.
Where no one feels judged.