my mother washed the same steel plate
until it lost its reflection.
I watched her hands—
pruned, patient,
circling the same surface
until the metal couldn't hold her face.
the gas ran out while the soap was still foaming.
soap, and the luxury of apathy,
are privileges:
who gets to not care,
who gets to finish washing.
Jan 9
Jan 9, 2026 at 3:06 PM UTC
my mother washed the same steel plate
until it lost its reflection.
I watched her hands—
pruned, patient,
circling the same surface
until the metal couldn't hold her face.
the gas ran out while the soap was still foaming.
soap, and the luxury of apathy,
are privileges:
who gets to not care,
who gets to finish washing.
how do I quote my world, then?
when my references are
gas cylinders,
my mother disappearing face in steel
when my footnotes are
the afternoon,
the interruption,
the thing that runs out
before you are finished
