WASH

When I go downstairs you’re standing at the sink wrestling an unruly yellow plastic basin

that keeps bobbing up, sticking it’s face over the neatly dumped, sausage-like,

foetus-like twists of wrung-out clothes on the stainless steel draining board

that are crowding out the blue china willow pattern mugs tilted, hugging the rim

and the handleless delph cutlery jug with a shy teaspoon inside skulking low

and a lofty fork riding high. You’re wearing black on black and dark blue slippers

trodden down at the heels, and you’re washing, slow and systematic, a washing machine

for blue-checked cotton short-sleeved shirts, drab-green t-shirts and navy blue socks,

being rough-handled and snow-boarded
in a miasma of biodegradable. When the kettle erupts

into readiness, I wet my tea, turn my back
on all this damp industry and go back to bed.

(Nina Quigley)

Extract from New Ulster Magazine, August, 2020

Kettle Image: (Image. Attribute: User:Ragesoss / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)