A Mothers's Morning

A mother moves about the silent house

and under the stairs.

The kids are on the bus,
counting their pencils.

Echoes reverberate off porous walls,
as the sound of her children’s voices
seep through the plaster,
and set themselves into the records of her soul.

Will I always remember who I am
when you are gone?

Was I here before you arrived?

She plunges her hands,
into warm, soapy water,

to wash the morning dishes.