Mother

by Suzanna Fitzpatrick

I am the ticking clock
chivvying, relegated
to background noise

I am the calendar
the family’s plans
scribbled on my face

I am the fridge
source of nourishment
emptied daily

I am the knife rack
glinting, edges kept
from little fingers

I am the child-locked cupboards
of chemicals, pills; poison
sloshing in my stomach

I am the washing machine
shuddering, churning,
permanently crammed

I am the kettle
softly seething
choked with steam

I am the flowers in a jam jar:
one open, one wilted,
one shut tight.