slow boil

We reach a pitch
in the slow boil
of anisette-making,
starting out with the sediment
of sugar and water
in the bottom of a Teflon pot.

Mother finds her
candy thermometer
in the back of a drawer,
with its nifty clip
that hooks to
the side of a pot,
so I can do other chores
on a Saturday afternoon
besides watching it heat up.

I’m the queen
of cleaning bathrooms,
amazing her every week
with the pristine shine
of white enamel
and long-necked chrome.

She monitors my progress
from her place
at the breakfast bar,
sitting in one of two
dining room chairs with arms,
ear level to the phone on the wall.

She wears her nightgown until after lunch,
legs crossed high
and naked underneath
her paraphernalia arranged
on the flecked Formica:
cup of saucerless coffee,
cigarette case and lighter,
tube of Chapstick and a plastic-wrapped
pack of small tissues.

I believe there’s a futility
in dusting but still
go from room to room
collecting particles,
stopping off at the stove to
stir with a wooden spoon,
as the red ribbon slowly
bears higher.

I sense that mother
is listening for something.
A sigh? A breeze?
A slow hissing leak?
A sign of some kind
that will free her of her languor?
She purses her lips as she smokes,
her face stoic and creased
by restless sleep.

I vacuum with a bump and grind
of out and back, and out and back.
And who is she? And why is she so sad?
And what more does she want?
Over the blue-green shag,
across the baby blue plush
into the hush of the living room
no one’s allowed into,
except for father, who reads the paper
during the twenty minutes it takes mother
to put dinner on the table.

She rouses in a creak of chair
and peers with me
into the pot —
truly blood-bubbling now —
and tells me it’s ready.
We pour the hot liquid
into a butterslick pan to harden,
and I’m excused for a while
to be who I’ll be
without her scrutiny.

Later I find her dressed
in slacks and cap-sleeved blouse,
waiting for father to come home.
She cracks off a dagger-
edged piece of anisette
and gazes out the window,
sharp corners in her cheeks.

This poem also appears in Vaginas Need Air, winner of Etchings Press 2019 Chapbook Contest