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The dishes













My kids won’t load the dishwasher

It’s driving me insane

And so I smash the plates instead

And walk out in the rain

The air is sweet and heady

If I could survive out here I would

A feral, lonely woman

Doing what she should

I’d build a camp from things I find

And make a little fire

And I’d sit there for a long, long time

Until the world expires

My bones will sink much deeper

Than the mulch and wood and peat

I’ll funnel down into the depth

And try and plant a seed

And after a long silence

When the awful time has passed

I’ll emerge victorious

Like a crocus, a blade of grass

The darkness will still shroud me

The fear of what has been

But when I walk back into the house

The dishes will be clean.

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