By Elizabeth C. Dorsch Maxey

The mixing bowl, dry with abrading dough,
Is soaking while I wash the oatmeal pot.
The residue of grain, congealed, is slow
To gather at the threshold with the clot
Of spent tea, poached egg edges, cranberries
Saved five months in the freezer, yet too soft
Upon defrosting. Murky waters ease
Into the drain beyond the sunken croft,
Bizarrely colorful, yet fetid with
Its barren yield not fit for compost. You
Might squeeze into the world alive, not whole,
Your mind a rind, no juice or pulp, just pith,
They tell me. Nothing they or I can do.
So what. I fiercely scrub the scaly bowl.

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