My Mother’s Achilles’ Heel

Hell, death, my mother could bravely face.
Her greatest fear was for the island's wolves 
to feast on her babies or for her to leave 
her children orphans to suffer in the hands 
of strangers.

So day after day, she bargained with Satan. 
Instead of constantly quarreling with the devil,
she bit her tongue, gathered her laundry 
and poured all her water into a wash bucket.

Each stone thrown at her was boiled and 
melted into liquid soap to soak and rub 
the linens until the skin of her hands peeled. 

A pinch of indigo powder thrown into the rinse 
added a final luster to her whites, and to her 
delight when she found them dry in the sun.  

Then at sundown armed with a charcoal iron, 
my mother stood in the dim light. She turned 
the garments back and forth ironing them and 
sprinkling them with liquid starch until the fire 
turned into ashes. 

Would my mother ever be the one to first relish 
the fragrance of her hard labor on my father's 
collar with a kiss?

But God forbade the angels visited that night 
and found children sleeping on stained sheets! 
Else, the house be damned!


From the Ink Noir collection ⚫️🔏 @angellaricot

Copyright © Angella Ricot

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