My World View

I count six kids in the women’s restroom—
girls and boys all yammering questions
as their placid mother dispenses silky
answers like soap, guides the rinsing
of slippery hands, and ushers them out,
sinks gleaming, floor dried,
no paper towel left behind.

In My Kitchen

As I put away the butter dish,
I see my grandmother buried
in the plastic pleats
of a bread wrapper.