Joy in a Bottle
My mother and I had little in common,
except dishes. How the warm water swirled
with lemony-fresh suds. How all anguish
acquiesced in the presence of Joy dish soap.
She washed. I dried—always jealous of her job.
Because everyone knows that, in the pecking order
of the kitchen, washer is best. But she always let me
choose which hand-embroidered towel to use.
Some with flowers, like the pink prairie rose,
which must remain prickly because thorns distance
the danger. Now that I’m grown, I know her life
was complicated, why she grew her own thorns.
For a few moments, we’d discuss dirty pans, the dinner, our day.
A peace declaration in the age-old dispute between demanding
mothers and ungrateful daughters. When sinks cleared,
there was an unspoken Amen, which, in its Semitic root,
means to be firm. And she always was that.
At last, the hanging of the towel, which served
as a white flag. Peace that lasted about as long
as the lemony scent lingered.
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Lisa Morlock lives in the Midwest with her lovely family and naughty dog. She loves all types of poems, especially those that bridge the natural world and human nature. Her poem, “The Rarity of Eiswein,” received a 2023 Pushcart Nomination. Publishing credits include Narrative Northeast, Lyrical Iowa, Moss Piglet and Cathexis Northwest Press.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 