Clogged (poetry)

~ M. Ashley

In those last three years
After she fell—elbows deep as I was
In human diarrhea diapers and the
Funk of her, refusing even a dry
Bath—Fox News and Star Trek at 11

All day
We both were so afraid.

One toilet hadn’t run at all in several
Years, the other was so corroded with
Hard water deposits and yellow hard water
Stains that I had to push the paper down
By hand, and both bathroom sinks
Slowed to a trickle. My mother couldn’t bear
The fear of trying to walk again and falling
And I couldn’t bear the fear of her death or
Living with her like this much longer. Neither
One of us could bear the fear of calling the plumber.

She died two years ago. Fear, it turns out,
Is useless. There is no immobility still enough
For Death to assume she already collected.

We learn this the hard way.
We learn it more than once.

I called the plumber.

When I wash my hands after
Flushing either of the working toilets
I watch the water flow freely
The swirl imperceptible
And it’s a miracle.

-M. Ashley

I am starting a poetry podcast and would love to feature your work. Upcoming themes are: Family and Connection, Writing on Writing, and Death and Taxes: The Inevitable. Please send submissions to: MichelleReadsPoems@gmail.com. Together, I think we can build something great.

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Published by M. Ashley

I am an essayist and poet. My work has been rejected by some of the finest journals in America. Fortunately, it also gets accepted from time to time and has appeared in equally fine journals such as Word Riot, Inlandia, Brew City Magazine, and SageWoman, among others.. In 2002, I won the Academy of American Poets Prize for Vanderbilt University.
 For no good reason, I possess an unnecessarily dark humor which is why being third generation California Inland Empirian delights me so. My gods are weird. I once won $350 for writing a smartassed essay on “why the wise use of water is important in my daily life”. I am undoubtedly the Greek god Hermes’ special snowflake. I’m pretty sure I got into college via a series of fortuitous clerical errors.
 When I had to grow up and get a real job, I decided against it and stayed a writer. I have worked many odd—and I mean odd—jobs to support my habit: PR writer for country music hopefuls, resume massager, WalMart fitting room attendant and switchboard operator, and telephone psychic, just to name a few.
 I am also albino. That's why my psychic gifts are so strong. I traded in my pigment for magical foresight, because that's how it works. It gets all technical. Trust me. That's totally how it works.

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