Mama always said Grandma never had a sense of rest.
She would get up at the crack of dawn
And iron and clean, and cook and scream
at cranky too tired kids.
She would set the plates—wash the plates,
prep the lunches, pack the lunches. Wait for the milkman
to come—clean the house, bake the bread, make the beds,
hang the sheets, thaw the chicken; And kiss the cheeks
of her children going off to school. Then she’ll go ahead
and brush her teeth—pick her hair, wash her body,
iron her clothes, eat some scraps, pack her lunch—
gulp down coffee, and run off to work.

“All that within an hour,” Mama said once, all that and off to work.

8 to 8 she would work—every day.
12 hours she would scrub floors, clean windows, watch kids—
feed kids, clean rooms, cook meals, shop for food—
get groped by bosses—get yelled by wives—dust the shelves,
wipe the walls, water the plants. Wash the clothes—spread the sheets,
brush the dogs—tame the cats—walk the pets—organize labels—stack cans,
deliver messages, write letters, read stories, sew clothes—patch coats.
Cracked her back—popped her knuckles –
    repeat –
        repeat –
            repeat –

Then she’ll go home
And do everything over again—
but faster, less obedient, more stern—more tired,
less patient, less powerless, more wrinkles, more back pain,
less sleep, less time, more aches, more hate—less rest—
less rest—
    repeat –
        repeat –
            repeat –

Mama always said Grandma never did smile,
And when she did, she found herself descending into heaven;
disbursing from her weary too tired body, into the abyss of formless