The Labor Of Love Poem by Amberlee Carter

My mother stands in the doorway, her
back arched beneath the pressure of wind-
she beats the rug until, dust encircles her.
She wipes her brow, tugs at the scarf
she wears around her neck to
catch the sweat- the coil
of thread and color lays limp
in her fist.

My father sits at the kitchen table,
doodling our future on his yellow, Mead pad-
drawing figures and graphs, he deciphers
the puzzle of numbers that has become
the essential language of our survival-
then he begins to tap the pen against the paper,
an uncoordinated rhythm that
always seems to make my mother nervous-
she turns from the business of cleansing,
he taps his coffee cup once against
the rustic dining table- she looks at it,
studies it as if it were a glimpse into
the legacy, she has, for one moment, set down-
stepped away from the proverbial
role of wife, and became goddess like-

This cup that sits before her, embodies the tyranny
of every Titan she’s destroyed- and when
she takes it between her delicate fingers,
lifting it from his grasp, with every intention of
mangling it-
he looks up at her with a faint smile-

and she, after having the thought
of throwing his favorite cup
against the wall, just to watch it
shatter into a thousand pieces,
that would pierce his heart- she nods,
pours one more day of devotion into it-
holds it with all her might,
presses her lips to the rim
to sip the excess....cradles it
between both hands-

Then as though her shoulders
hadn’t buckled beneath
the pressure of his world:
gives it back to him....lets it go.