A light on in the kitchen
For Mom
A woman opens the door
Arms full of groceries
She sets them on the kitchen counter
Along with her keys and jacket and kid's sock and
A paper cup of melted ice and Diet Coke
She puts on the counter her rolled pizza dough
Hot out of the oven on a threadbare oven mitt
She lets the laughter roll over it
She paints over it, regrets it
She sets her to do lists on the kitchen counter,
Nine since last Thursday
She puts her kids' homework there,
Their elbows as they sulk over problem #7
She puts her patience there,
Wrapped warm in a blanket,
Like a loaf of bread to cool,
Sometimes burnt and hot to the touch
She lays her worries there,
Wondering if it will collapse
She spills the casserole and
Doses the medicine with water beside
She gathers the eggs from the hens,
Cracks them there on the counter,
12 eggs a morning, multiplied by 7,
Equals, multiplied by 54,
multiplied by what? How many years?
She leans on the counter there and
Wonders sometimes at night or early in the morning,
"For what?"
That's when she spreads her prayer out there,
Like a morning offering, like a dusting of flour,
The light making latticework over the dented counter,
Christening the sacrifice
She wipes the disappointments
Off the counter with the crumbs
And scoops up her children instead
To snuggle them, leaning against the counter
She kisses foreheads and her husband on the lips
And welcomes home with her sleeves rolled up
And the counter beams at her all the while
Wondering that the woman ever thought the counter might break
When all she'd given him was a place to call home
And, always, a light on in the kitchen
At the end of the day
— olivia gwyn
