Anna Bachtle, Ed Ochester
Of course she’s happy
in the kitchen
whose stone and metal
have been worn out by her flesh.
She’s smoothed the clean linen
for fifty years;
in fall she laughs like a slice of moon
as she peels warm apples
into the battered colander in the sink.
The heavy cloth, the scent of fruit,
are comfortable things.
She is no appendix to her daughter’s world.
Unless you escape in time,
she reviews forever the ancient pennants
on boats vanished from the river,
her first man’s name,
the umbrella trees she saw one time in Kingston.
Seemingly content with chores,
with trees beyond the window
spinning familiar cycles,
she unfurls the wash like banners.
Surely her work is useful.
She earns her keep.
She tells her daughter’s world as it runs
straight tracks toward its future,
“I am useful,
I am still here.”
