Her silhouette is dimly lit
By a weak bulb that dangles
From the pale kitchen ceiling
A scrap of steel wool is clutched in one hand
Whilst the other strangles a rusted iron pan
Her apron is soiled and soaked
Her steaming rubber gloves cling hot and close
She pumps with a fury
From its old plastic crock
The watered-down soap
Onto the food-spattered wok
There, in the shallow tin sink
Lies a mug, a cutting board, a spoon or two
She disentangles the mass of forks interlink’d
With mechanical movements; as one well used to
Her children are silent in their beds
She looks out the window, oppressive in its night-black
There is a pounding, a swelling in her head
She shuttles more dishes onto the dripping plastic rack
In her mind, she reviews and replays
The happenings and trials
Of her working day-to-day
Phone calls, letters, marking files.
This was not all she had once known –
She used to always be with book in hand;
Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary, Middlemarch
A modern Becky Sharp in rigorous self-command
She too had once had aspirations
Ambitions to rise from her lowly stool
Clever schemes and sagacious machinations
But alack – the world was subtly sly and cruel.
This was how she was thus bound
With hands constrained to the kitchen sink
Her dreams; they slowly drowned –
And her hand remained chained to its silver ring.