When the Doctor Looked at the Ultrasound Of My Shoulder and Said: “Well You Have a 52-Year- Old Rotator Cuff After All. . .”
by Andrea Potos

I thought of our dishwasher,
born 26 years before we moved in.
Just last week, it coughed up
its last spume of water. It gurgled,
then stopped, just like that. The death
rattle of silverware and dishes
that had to be removed,
laid in the porcelain sink and scrubbed
by hand, my hands that, at 52, still
oddly enjoy the splash of warm water falling
on my skin, and the way soap bubbles
sparkle under kitchen light,
such iridescent verve—I believe they would whistle
if they could—though every second
they are dying, and every second
they are born.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 3.

placesaverAndrea Potos is the author of four poetry collections. We Lit the Lamps Ourselves (Salmon Poetry) and Yaya’s Cloth (Iris Press) both received Outstanding Achievement Awards in Poetry from the Wisconsin Library Association.

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