Poem: Cinderella Complex

My mother measures worth
in tidiness
how other people measure flour--
packed tight on the tipping scale--

in seconds spent bent over
steaming, screaming dishes

and strokes of the sticky-handled,
stiffened broom;

soggy potato peels collected for the
wormy compost;

hours wiping dull windows until
they disappear;

ironing pleated trousers
'til they stand on end;

intercepting dandelions
tiptoeing into the hedgerows;

inching together the seams of sheets
and flattening the breath out of them upon
the bed.

The earlier you rise, the later
you work, the better she knows:
the more staggering the contrast between
before-and-after,
like two color photographs on a double-page
home improvement ad--

the better to consider your humanity, my dear.

A jeweler weighs gold;
she balances solid value with
intrinsic density.
Now you tell me:
who is the stepmother and who
is Cinderella?