Motherland

Fate wrings us like

the wet towel we use 

to scrub the littered floor 

where the wood is too old 

for the mop to reach 

maybe we are too old 

for these adventures

maybe we do not 

have any gifts 

to offer the gods

maybe we suffer from

too many illusions 

or delusions

to be of use to them

but we are not released 

they’ll make us crawl and

polish under the radiator

to pull forth the cobwebs 

and the black dust that somehow 

can always be found there 

our Cinderella story is 

the same story that

other women 

have been telling 

for all these centuries

the ritual of it is why I am weeping 

into my shirtsleeves 

because I have often 

been reminded

that the dust will be our motherland.