H E R M E N E U T I C C H A O S J O U R N A L
When I was a young maid, and washed my mother’s dishes, well, this poem gets very rude very fast and is known by “base” people, so it is changed to a little boy washing his mother’s dishes and pulling fishes out of his ear instead of the young maid pulling something from somewhere else. The boy grows up to be rich. The girl ends much worse.
Your mother’s in the kitchen making up bread. She imagines butter, too, and sugar. She stares at the kitchen floor as though the linoleum is readable. We try to get her to go to her room, but she thinks the kitchen is her room. Go away, she says, this is my room, and she shuts the door.
*Note: The lines in bold are from Mother Goose and serve as the titles of these prose poems.
Jessy Randall's poems, poetry comics, and other things have appeared in Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, and West Wind. She is a librarian at Colorado College and her website is https://personalwebs.coloradocollege.edu/~jrandall/
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