A Tale
of a Working Mother
Eve wakes every morning
turns her head to the sun
looks past the Body that lies
beside her
Eve rises to another day with that ache
in her body, in her soul
reaching for her Child
who screams
She dresses her children (and herself)
brushes their hair (and her own)
digests glutinous oat porridge
leaves the home
good-bye
a short distance
small space of time
ENCLOSED
Eve arrives ready to work
sifting through soil and swede
on the conveyor today, again
sometimes she throws the dirt
sometimes she keeps the dirt
Eve watches the earth travel
beneath her numb knarled hands
She is sorting, always sorting,
the Mud from the Material,
the Dirt from the Dream.
© Gaylene Barnes