What Does Mother Do?
Claire Kuehn
The mother scrubs, for that is what mothers do.
Hands disintegrating,
cracked, and welling
as blood spots on the cloth.
Tatters and tears conceal the
youth of the gory fabric.
Every mark ripped free--
replaced by yet another.
Bleach and bubbles breaking down
such once-resplendent silk.
The machine cowers
forgotten in the corner;
Yet the washboard is a slave.
The mother scrubs, for that is what mothers do.
Hands disintegrating,
cracked, and welling
as blood spots on the cloth.
Tatters and tears conceal the
youth of the gory fabric.
Every mark ripped free--
replaced by yet another.
Bleach and bubbles breaking down
such once-resplendent silk.
The machine cowers
forgotten in the corner;
Yet the washboard is a slave.
The mother scrubs, for that is what mothers do.