When I clean crumbs (A Poem)

When I clean crumbs


A dirty pan

the size of my world

and bigger than our sink



I should be cleaning dishes

but sitting in a church pew



Curling water corrals the oil

I press the stubborn crust

against the rising tide



Cleaning the crumbs from my pan

brings back Mama’s tears



Fried corn bread on a Thursday morning

that’s my day

I got to say one grace

and another to myself

“forgive me for swiping the jam”

but God was never fast enough

and I snatch the first piece



That made Mama cry



Fried corn bread on a Thursday morning

doesn’t crumble like Wednesday’s freshly baked

Stiffer

the butter holds

I like it burnt



That made Mama cry



Burnt bread for her babies

The flame could never be controlled

And I never cared if those globs of jam

made her feel better too



I never saw her tears fill the sink

floating crumbs and memories of her Mama



Kentucky corn bread isn’t fried here

but then

I always taste it

when I clean crumbs

from a dirty pan the size of my world