Mother hangs her tea bags on the door,
winds the strings around the knob. Drips,
like paw prints, stain the old wood floor.
I don’t know why she does it. She never
uses them again. After her tea she gets
the big pot and scrubs vegetables for soup.
Her knife is rhythmic against the cutting board,
her felt slippers scuffing from counter to stove
and back again. I see her mouth move sometimes
as she sways, mincing, mincing her life.
Sarah Russell has poems in Kentucky Review, Red River Review, Misfit Magazine, and Psaltery and Lyre, where she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her collection, I lost summer somewhere will be published in May by Kelsay Press. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net.
Post a Comment