Geraldine Connolly
A Woman’s Labor
I have shopped and cooked,
wandered long dazzling aisles
for shiny apples, plump golden
peaches, cloves to spice the chicken.
I have chopped and sliced, grated
and peeled. Here at the counter
I mixed and stirred,
great chunks of my life falling
into stews like raw meat,
great pillows of morning and rafts
of afternoon floating into the sea
as I repaired and mended,
dug and weeded, falling
on my knees to clip mint and basil.
I nursed and tended,
cleaned up blood and spit,
stood at the sink scrubbing.
I polished and buffed, hemmed
and basted, folded and stacked.
Children hung on me like
small animals pecking and clawing.
I ruffled my feathers. I flew
on to the next task. This was
the work I thought I wanted,
the good of it always vanishing
as new work rose up. And the children
grew into their strength and left
the family table, trying their wings,
as they squawked and screamed
at me, knocked over vases, left
the door open as they
flew out into the world.