Housework as Told Through Genesis
Author E.R. Skulmoski
Housework as Told Through Genesis
E.R. Skulmoski
In the beginning, piles of forks, knives and spoons caked in day old spaghetti sauce glint in the silver sink. Water pours from the calcified faucet, light streams through the foggy windows. Let the hot water do its job and it does just so. Water drains into the strainer along with pieces of meat and bone. Sink cleared. The first hour.
On the counter—a ketchup bottle, left out garlic toast, and three cans of soda. Empty jars of pickles and pasta sauce. Three soiled pots. One clotted with bacon grease, another soiled from last night’s supper—cold and scabbed over. I gather the cans and jars, and walk over wet leaves, and toss them in the recycling bin. Let autumn rain soak my skin. The second hour.
Back into the warmth of home—blankets strewn across the living room. Pillows stacked in one corner. Gloves and slippers gathered in another, all ignored for a while. Hair, dust, and bubble gum wrapper swept in a pile, heaped in the middle of the room. Distracted by my phone, I stand still, scrolling for the next five minutes, dissolving into the third hour.
Then, let there be motivation. I gather the hair, dust, and bubble gum wrapper and drop them in a bag, tear off a paper towel and scrape grease off the pan. I plunge my hands into cold, left out spaghetti in the pot, lamenting the food that is lost. Let lemon scented dish soap pour generously over the greasy pans and I scrub until the fourth hour.
I gather the courage to open the fridge drawer and find a slimy cucumber disintegrated in its own plastic. Three-week-old chilli abandoned in the back corner. Moldy pork chops left in their bowl. Yellowed broccoli. A rotting green pepper. I offer them all to the lips of the garbage bin. God bless disinfectant wipes and let the clear fridge appear. The fifth hour.
In the bathroom, I spray the counter. I let the soap penetrate the marble, and the Windex run down my face in the mirror. I gather old newspaper and scrunch them into flowers to wipe the suds from top to bottom. Then let bleach pour from the spout and circle the bathroom bowl. Scrub the limescale and crystallized urine. Let the sins of grime and dirt flush down in the sixth hour.
Poems & Paraboles publishes work that illuminates, awakens, or opens a small window toward wonder. Some pieces are quiet. Some are bold. Some carry a moral thread, while others wander into the mysterious and ethereal.
Poets and story-tellers are invited to submit their work. Selected pieces will be posted and featured throughout the year. See Submission Guidelines!




This surprised me! So raw and beautiful, and relatable and mundane?? Isn’t that life. Brilliant!
So beautiful!