Mama always did the dishes
after I made them dirty.
I’d carry as many as I could in one big trip
to the kitchen sink.
Pretended I was a waitress
ballerina, plates on my palm
balanced with empty glasses on top.
Only a handful
of times did they fall and shatter.
Mama’d scream like I deeply hurt her
only child, or spilled hot tea on her foot.
I’d plié in fear and horror
in lieu of running away
to a small town where I could change
my name, be a big time
waitress when I grow up,
get all the Coke I want.
Mama always did the dishes
while I thirsted
for something to do
other than watch TV or watch her
sob and do the dishes.
I listened to her sing
songs from childhood
more loudly than usual
over rushing water and
my high-pitched babblings
I’d thought of myself
or heard on the news.
Mama always did the dishes.
I danced and brought my own blues.
Amber Weinstock holds a BA in Literature from Binghamton University. After teaching in South Korea and traveling for over a year, she’s returned to Brooklyn, NY to pursue art things and fight the urge to float away like a helium balloon again.