On a Birthday's Dinner Dishes

The relative clang and clatter,
the iridescent tinge of soap bubbles,
glimmer-pools on the counter
reflecting bits of a dinner's dust
are not there. In their place:

a sink-full of unrinsed plates, bowls
of soup half-empty; half-chewed
wads from my grandmother's plate
still rest on my grandmother's
plate, destabilize the pile.

My mother's drained snifter clings
to the counter's ledge, crystalline
orange liqueur glazing the mirror
of my own. She offered to wash
them, I know, but I begged her

to sit, relax, ended up spending
two clumsy hours on the couch.
Now the dishes reek in my kitchen,
– reminder of all I owe.