— Renée Schell
Dirty dishes stand compiled on the counter.
I remember them from yesterday.
The forks have changed position, though.
Now they’re stacked on the scrambled egg platter,
caked with the monosyllables of breakfast.
The satin of homemade grape jelly
coated the wooden spoon yesterday.
This morning it carries the remnants of last night’s
stew on its back like a farmer’s sweaty shirt.
There they all stand,
beer glasses like vacant silos,
the freshly plowed field of a brownie pan,
a precarious landscape
barely in balance,
and underneath it all
my grandmother’s chipped plates stacked
like circles of relentless sun.
*first appeared in Granny Smith Magazine June 2012