By Pandora Chow
my mother was cleaned
scrubbed in the 100 sq.feet apartment
rubbed of her books
with grains of static radio
spun out of insults and irritation
perm-pressed to bow softly
over the hard cusps of plates
fur harden and edge up
under the blades of the washing machine
and however it is applied
ploughs the face of a tearful baby
my mother teaches me to clean
Sweep the black beans spilling from the pouch.
what is the use of your heart
too small to contain my fast fists
the red stain on your cheeks
even if you cover up your ears.
smoke slips through your fingers anyway
into your fluffy cartoon bag
stretches to everything until it’s painful
and stretches still
Stack the files out of place.
every step, look, or breath
should be logged, reordered
into the household manual of
norms and responsibility
you will be a dirty adult
Oh how many times I have told you
Keep the counter dry.
Wipe your face with the blue towel now.
my mother cleans
heat-dries the blisters on her forearm
wrings her tendons
soaked heavy with age
joints clipped, bones hung on the clothing rack
–I cover my ears–
and over the chair
the eyes shut the blinds on the windowsill
and, long ago, polished my dirt into cool glass
(the undiluted bleach lingers)
Now, I am sanitized.
ironed out and folded
except one reluctant speck
Pandora is a lover of literature particularly fascinated by magical realism. Outside of reading and writing, she is an engineering student passionate about science and technology, and enjoys the occasional jogging and knitting session.
Hot Pot Magazine 