The Dishwasher
ME = By Teresa Dowding
When She smiles it's
(give us a smile sweetheart)
taking a breath or
simply desperation
and She is blank
to survive.
Pain transforms Her body
(nice legs shame about the face)
into an abstraction
that keeps Her going.
She can't stop.
So She shakes off
the dead gripping horror
at comforting words
(it's only a compliment dear)
sliding from the radio —
a mind-ripping object like
a forever screaming child
it sits on the shelf and
oozes at Her back how
women have been liberated
long long ago —
a whispering lullaby.
And She keeps going.
Has to.
Ignores the patronising
hate disguised smiles
from limp-refined ladies
who lunch off Her
gleaming dishes and
agree delicately with
the radio that tears
at her brain and
makes her want to
slip into something
more comfortable like —
oblivious mad violence.
But She doesn't.
She clocks up the
few hourly dollars
which buy so much bread
(where's my dinner love?)
vegetables, meat,
washing powder, soap
(where's my bloody tie!)
clothes —
and more.