A mother stands beside her friend and boasts
about a dustless house, displays her masterpiece
and follows the waxed grain of a wood floor to a corner,
where her daughter neatly places three silver
plated vessels before before an ornate samovar
filled with orange pekoe tea, and after the girl
perfects the arrangement, the mother glares
at her friend to declare her parental superiority as
the friend withholds laughter at the thought of this woman
with boys, wonders if she'd bother waxing
her pine pergo or if she possesses the skill to soften
three coarse and calloused brothers, pull them from
their quarrels and polish them of blood and dirt
and place them neatly before anything: a perfect arrangment
of tempered thunder, achieved with the vitality only found
in souls of women who raise men.
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