I have served between eight and twenty-five
thousand meals for my family,
I make coffee for them more than once per day,
equating to tens of thousands of perky hot pots.
I have given away my last dollar countless times,
I have shared the best bite, held my breath,
I have waited eternities all the while diluting myself,
watering patience back to life in the long afternoon heat. Thirsted for a moment.
I have dried tears, kissed scrapes, wiped milk, picked up,
and cheered up others, all while crawling on my hands and knees.
Does it count?
How many socks have I matched or single-handedly lost?
How many squares of cloth have I folded in nice ninety-degree angles?
How many circles have I Venn in?
How many bubbles have I burst?
How many sides have I taken
down only to expose what was hollow inside?
I have said the three words 'I love you'
and they have not all come back around
on any one or two
ellipse-this is
proof of expansion or an open Universe,
no place like Home.
My hands are callused, my feet are blistered and tender,
my eyes are faded and brittle, my skin gets heavier day by day,
and my hair glistens faintly like brass,
my cartilage collapses and all my salt sloughs off.
What is left to make of this?
I have forgetten how freedom is one-sided and furthermore I have failed
to recall my name when I am most lost,
when I am too busy, when the last course
is done, when the words, 'my pleasure' meant motive,
when advantage was a taken
and Time
was given.
What will be said about what is done?
I put this here, so someday they may say,
Her sentence had served her well.
Painting by Jules Lefebvre, 'Servant' c. 1880 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
