Hiding
I am curled up like a pretzel
in the depths of a closet,
hiding.
I cannot take one more
question, one more
demand,
even a glance in my direction
is too much. Please
pretend
I no longer exist.
Just for the rest
of tonight.
Washing Your Dishes
I washed the knife
you put in the sink,
the one you left with too
much peanut butter smeared
along both sides of the blade.
I also washed your fork,
the bloody red tomato
sauce still stuck to the tines.
In return, you partially
scrubbed the spatula I used
to make you brownies.
Still dirty with traces of batter,
I left it where you would see
it, on top of the coffee machine,
your altar where your daily
devotions are made at dawn.
But it has yet to attract
your attention or any
curiosity at all and you
haven’t asked me what it is
doing there. Should I tell you
why it lies there awkwardly?
It will start another fight
over my lack of servitude
and how I used to help you
and that now I am just bitter.
Why can’t I do do these small
things for you without complaint
like I used to? You will
demand an answer and I will
once again shut down, unable
to summon words for my defense.
You like to be loved with codependency,
the type where I do everything
you want without asking for anything
in return. You call
it being low maintenance
but really it’s no maintenance
and even cars stop running
when you never bother to replace the oil.
Hestia is a writer who grew up in England and moved to the USA for love. Her work has appeared in or is soon to be published by Whims of the Wilderness and Underbelly Press. In the pages of her poems, Hestia examines and reckons with the choices she has made as a wife and mother over the last three decades.
