Were I to Wring a Rag

—no matter how much   
muscle I might have   
mustered—my mother   
was like to come along   
behind, reach around   
me to take it up again   
from where I’d left it,   
lift it back into my line   
of vision and in one   
practiced motion from   
that strangle in her bare   
hands and thin air work   
a second miraculous   
stream of silver dishwash   
into the day’s last gleam . . .