Elbow Grease

Blisters breaking surface skin,
chiseled cheekbones rise and fall. Hours brimming
at her brow line, chasing gravity down her waist.
“Elbow grease,” she says.

Scrubbing daydreams out of pans as vigor
leaves her fingertips, she’s waving spoons
and laughing loud while garlic cloves
hang thick.

Bubbles slowly evaporate, the sauce
purging as she had planned, the pulse
of home, a sweet intoxicate.

Strong hands fuel her daily work: She trusts
in psalms and gospels, the songs her mother
taught her when days were green in Sicily.
“Elbow grease,” she says to me, “this is how
you get things done.”