If You Have to Wash the Dishes

If You Have to Wash the Dishes

Step into that spill of sunlight
puddled on the kitchen floor.
Feel it on your feet, your hands,
let it warm your face
and paint lava
inside your lids.

Let water pour like a liquid miracle
from stainless steel heavens
into your waiting palms. 

Cup them together.
Let them fill. 
Watch for bubbles. 
Smile when you spot them,
or cry, if you’d rather.

Let grief find you here—
or joy.
There isn’t much difference.
They travel together,
and they’ve been trailing you
all day.    

Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash

The Prompt

The title for my poem today was adapted from the first line of the first poem I ever memorized: Shel Silverstein’s How Not to Have to Dry the Dishes. Do you remember the first poem you ever memorized? Or the first poem you ever loved? The first one to kick about inside your consciousness like a strange little friend? If so, I’d love to hear about it in the comments!

And on to our prompt for today . . . dishwashing! I’m sure you’re wanting more of this in your life, so I’m glad to offer you the opportunity not only to do it but also to write about it.

What are your earliest memories related to dishwashing? Whose job was that in the household where you grew up? What meaning do you attach to that now? (My parents had five children, and I’m pretty sure they planned it that way specifically so that they could assign each of us one weeknight for washing dishes.) Do any particular memories or stories attach themselves to the kitchen sink of your youth?

Who washes the dishes in your current household? What range of meanings might be ascribed to that reality?

How do you feel when you’re up to your elbows in soap suds, scrubbing away? What happens inside your mind as your hands perform that work? Are there particular aspects of dishwashing that you enjoy? Or are there particular dishes you dread cleaning? (If you want to raise my hackles, go ahead and write a poem about washing a pan after making scrambled eggs. Or about breaking sippy cups down into their 23 constituent parts prior to cleaning.)

Finally, if you’ll be washing dishes today, take your time over it. Give it your attention. Surrender to the whooshing of water. Feel it on your skin. Notice how it catches the light. Look at each dish with care. Feel its heft in your hand. What is it actually like to wash dishes? What sensations are present when you are present?

Write down whatever comes to you. Don’t worry about finding the ending. Trust it to find you. Let the words flow like water. It’s okay if the page gets smudged or wrinkled. Polished poems are lovely things, but the process of opening to the possibility of a poem, any poem—I think that’s where the biggest magic happens. If you end up with something you’d like to share, I’d love to read it and hope you’ll post it in the comments.

Thank you, as always, for being here! I’m wishing good things for you wherever you are in the world and whatever moment you find yourself in.