Diana does the dishes.
Her arms are arrows
searching for the wild beasts
lurking in the bubbly forest of her sink.
She smiles when she finds a white
saucer the size of the moon.
The trickle of the faucet stream,
the natural flow of fertility.
Patiently, Diana frees food debris
to end their evening’s slavery.
Pots and pans of silver–
mirrors for self-admiring.
Her sponge’s quiver emptied;
her hunt at an end. “Special delivery!”
she cries, splashes playfully her eyes,
but be careful not to spy
her hands emerging,
two private poppies for remembering.
© khartless 2022, All Rights Reserved
I thought it would be fun to record some of these poems of NaPoWriMo pasts. I think I could b
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
This is fun, so imaginative. ❤️
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Thank you, John. I spend a lot of time doing dishes, so this idea made sense. 🤣💜
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I see, my bachelor life means almost no doing of dishes. Happy Sunday❤️
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What,
Do tiny elves come out at night and do your dishes? 🤣
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No elves, I just rinse everything off with soap and water, dry them off, and put them away. Quick and simple.
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Thanks for this amazing idea. Anita
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😃
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I love the imagery in this poem. I must learn to not be so literal. 💟 Happy Mother’s Day!
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