The Woman's Hour
Dawn is the woman's hour
when the day's sky peels
like a ripe mango, fleshy gold and red,
uncovering open mouths of children
and the man of the house
curled and misshaped
in a fetal mass of blanket and sheets.
Her bare feet read the way
to the kitchen between legs
of his easy chair and her mother's table.
The morning is hers, the kitchen is hers,
the blue jar filled with coffee is hers.
She sifts the black grains with her fingers,
breathes in their headiness and tosses
them up watching as they lift
like wild grains on the wind.
Yes, today is hers,
to do anything or nothing
until the rousing world rubs its stubble
against her and tugs at her skirt
reminding her it's time to get a move on.