Here is the kettle and here is the spoon
A full moon in daylight splinters the sky
My mother is dead, my father, too
Their plots are quadrangles crooked and slumped
Here is the skillet, a halo of iron
A hundred years’ worth of hands have heaved
It from the sizzling fires, cornbread and grease
And tedious days of crossing the floors
To cook and feed and wipe the board dry
Here is the basin and here is the rag
Here is the sorrow of hot soapy water
Chafing the wrists and blistering the heart