Mirror Bevel

william erickson | Poetry

My happiness is nearly done in the dishwasher, the drupels of water shrinking from shadows of fine white dust on its skin. It bathes above the smoldering element awaiting the song. It softens into the containment of its own false day. As a matter of routine the appliance repairman rings the doorbell before he knocks. He says he is not a locksmith. Says he came from church where a week’s godlessness was drained from him to drape in the window and dry. The plastic latch clicks in his hand. He claims that the dishwasher is working perfectly, but I know damn well the sashes of his ears are painted shut. When I was just a boy I wanted nothing more than to know how nature could stand my constant scrubbing.