Portrait of my mother at the kitchen sink
This afternoon, snoozing on the hammock,
I opened one eye, saw my mother framed
by the kitchen window, a familiar perspective
from childhood, her face misted by glass
and cloud reflections, watching my brother
bounce a space hopper down the path,
smiling at me picnicking with Care Bears
on the patio, pouring pretend cups of tea.
I’d hear the click of cutlery, the clack of pots,
the spit of water from boiling potatoes.
I’d look up to see her at the kitchen sink,
shoulders shrugging, foam tipping her nose,
the tell-tale signs of washing up – a sketch
absent from the final scene. She would raise
a sudsy hand, like some kind of mutant
and I would shout, show me your bubble hands!
Now, with head bowed, focused on work,
you remind me of a Vermeer. If only you’d be
still for a moment, then we could extract
this double-glazed portrait from brick,
auction it off to the National Gallery
where a team of art historians will study
the way the sunlight silvers your grey hair.
For generations to come, visitors will ponder
the symbolism of that one perfect bubble
blown to someone just out of view.
Jeanette Burton is a poet from Belper in Derbyshire. Her poetry has previously appeared in Poetry Wales, The Friday Poem, Atrium, IS&T and Dreich. She has been placed in several competitions, winning first prize in McLellan (2021), Ware (2022) and Poets, Prattlers and Pandemonialists (2023). Her debut pamphlet, Ostriches: Ten Poems about My Dad, is published by Candlestick Press.
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