She is summoned for a cup of coffee
before the eyes can open.
The house breathes her in like incense
sweet when needed, choking when not.
The woman she serves, speaks of justice, of rising tides
but never sees the maid’s drowning eyes.
Carried in her little apron:
crumbs from a breakfast she didn’t taste,
a broken brooch she didn’t break,
a key she’s not allowed to use,
a list of orders inked by masters
and the weight of every accusation
that arrived before the evidence.
She knows all the corners of mansions,
absorbs the moods of households.
But is gifted with hand- me downs
and a pair of shoes worn thin by ambition.
And when she dares to rest, they call it an excuse.
A headache becomes defiance.
A funeral becomes fiction.
Before the sun sets,
she wipes all the demands.