Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.

Sunday Ritual

Evyan Roberts

Residing in her pink robe, the one with the acrylic zipper in the front and the unnecessary homemaker-like lace at the collar. She sets her matching orthopedic slippers, to the side,

and kneels over the basin. Like praying to deities of Arm &; Hammer Baking Soda and Heinz

Vinegar, she bends and begins passionately scrubbing, invoking the tool of her gods – a hard bristle brush – in the aid of her task. Mumbling in tongues, over and over, watching all that build up, give way. Her muscles fight exhaustion and residue. The grout of the tiles keeping her in a tepid sweat. I faithfully observe this private Sunday performance. Now, watching her lean back, to rest on her heels, then stretch for her cigarette, it ashing down her front. The fault of ceaseless muscles, trembling from rest – inspiring her to never stop. Falling to the laced collar of her robe, an ember slowly burns. She is unmoved. Looking to the water damaged ceiling, her eyes close, smoke aims from her mouth to the broken exhaust fan. The full billow dissipates to a thinned fume as she pulls once more. And with the remainder of her smoke, kneels forward, blessing the dingy basin, enriching it in smokey prayer, alongside the delicate sacrifice of polyester burning steadily, wider and wider, against her bosom.

More from Evyan Roberts ↓

• @writing.femme on Instagram

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Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.