She Boiled Kielbasa, then Washed Some Dishes by Krista Genevieve Farris

She severs links. Her knife pierces

tough translucent skinned kielbasa.

Shrugs off cuts that dull blades

and the reason for stainless, for steel.

She reaches into the sink.

Soft hips blend into closed cabinets.

Our edges whisper while I watch,

hearing is hard.

She tidies-up, tries not to leave me

with gunk in my grout

shows me the difference

between clean and cared-for.

We never foretold this time-

a side for scouring

a side for rinsing

a thin ridge between.

Without spectacles,

sudsy fingers feel burned

bits on cast iron crust.

Please, let the season stay.

The double-paned window

half-closed

still

reflects

Mom.

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Krista Genevieve Farris writes about whatever tickles her not so fancy in whatever form fits. Her work has been included in a wide variety of journals and magazines. Links to her published poetry, essays and stories can be found at her writer's website. https://kristagenevievefarris.wordpress.com/