Amen to that,

she said, cementing

the last word into place

like a full stop.

Turning sinkward,

she plunged her red hands

into the steaming suds

and scrubbed and scrubbed,

her wagging bum a

counterbalance

to the chop of her arms

through the laundry.

Behind her now,

the matter slid from

the air, like the trace of

bursting bubbles

dribbling down

the sink-cupboard door.

And I would have said more,

but already

she was looking

out the window, at

the vegetable patch that

needed weeding.