Red chairs slide snug under the table.
A damp cloth swipes along the groove
of a cup rim, an empty bowl.
Everything finds its own ready place
out of the light—
the kitchen radio plays
poets in their prime,
breathless with art given freely
to anyone tuned in for the hour.
Garlic and oil cling to the air.
The mother-poet wears suds
around her wrists like bangles,
as if poetry were there with her,
in the sink, deep in the pots,
waiting to be scoured, rinsed,
aired out in the strong
Kristin Berger lives in Portland, OR with her family and writes poetry, essays, and fiction. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming, among others, in The American Poetry Journal, The Comstock Review and online at Mom Writers Literary Magazine, Hip Mama and Hot Metal Press.