by Vanessa Proctor

The dishwasher has broken
due to neglect and overwork.
Even when it’s running,
there’s always a stack of things
too greasy or fragile
for its metallic maw
and inevitably I inherit
the pile in the sink.

Despite my irritation,
I find a strange rhythm
as the day turns in on itself,
the iridescence of soap bubbles
lifts me like the butcherbird’s song
outside the window
as slowly the world shifts
towards order and cleanliness.

I think of my parents
in the old country,
even now after sixty years,
standing behind the net curtains,
side by side,
my father washing,
my mother drying,
both of them restoring order,
to the ends of every day,
carefully putting everything
back exactly where it belongs.