Wyckoff Hospital, May 2009

My mother’s hands crack 
dry and red with eczema
and decades of dutiful work
with her household’s chemicals.
 
She spent her life cleaning
that spacious apartment, empty
except for the cat hiding 
under the bed her husband sleeps on
alone, brimming with the Budweiser
he hid in their pristine kitchen.
 
Maybe she thought bleach would wash away
the stains of her reasons to stay
as well as it hid the blood he drew,
cornering her in the bathroom
when the latch broke away 
from the inside door frame.
Never trust a woman
to do a man’s work.
 
Still, she scrubbed at the stains 
of the wreckage of her days
on aching knees, even as cancer
spread to her lower back bones.
I wonder how the glow
of her bright white bathroom tiles
never highlighted the strain 
he placed on her breaking back,
how over the constant hum 
of her washer and dryer, no one heard
 
her life giving out.