he’s washing the dishes. a

man shouldn’t do that. it’s

embarrassing. the other kid’s

dad’s don’t. it’s women’s work.

I hide my head.

I stand at the sink now years

later and see my mother’s hands

raw, cracked, hurting. he did

it for her, out of love, long before

we learned to lib.

I am embarrassed now, that I

didn’t see the strong heart in

those brute shoulders, bent

forward with the scrub brush

in his hands.

——————–

   (for my father, repeated from 6.16.2013)