Taste of Dawn
On weekdays after breakfast
I stood in front of the kitchen window,
and washed dishes before going to
school. While up to my elbows in hot,
soapy water, I watched lemon
scented suds slowly slip between plates
my brothers glued together with
Mrs. Butterworth's famous syrup.
Occasionally I glanced out
the window to see a single plate
of flaming crimson silently slide
from its earthen shelf into the cool
morning sky. Clouds would float by
as if God himself had blown them from
his fingertips, like I blew soap suds
from mine. Behind me, my brothers stabbed
each other with sticky forks until
mom yelled and they sent the forks flying
into my cooled dishwater. I would
open my mouth to yell only to
have the flying suds land on my tongue,
filling my mouth with the taste of dawn.
