she takes her time
squirts in the dish soap
adjusts the nozzle to
spray
the handle to hot to
create
a bubble bath in the
sink.
Suds lift in a meringue
of quivering peaks—
she slides the plates in
leaves them to
soak.
Returning, submerges her
hands
in a kind of exploring
surrender to luxurious
sensation
feeling heat change her
within, rinses the
glasses
turning them under the
faucet
inspects them in the
light
places them in the
drainer to dry.
Working calmly, full of
instinct
she begins gently to
sing:
we are pearls . . . we
are pearls
born little grains of
sand . . .*
* from Ma Muse’
song, pearls
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