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.
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