Power and Light

Paula Sergi

When she’s out of money again, flat broke despite
her frugal coupon clipping, she shoves the unpaid power
and light bill to the back of her mother’s hand-carved
maple desk, closes the drawer,
and starts a project from whatever can be found.
She’s good at drawer closings, discounting
what can’t be figured on paper. The day her husband died
at the lake leaving three small kids and one on the way,
she stood in the unfinished kitchen, made a meal
from canned tuna, then shined our best shoes
for morning. One week later she found a dachshund pup,
and began her private crying. I have heard her
ripping sheets for café curtains, seen her running
stitch turn a scarf into a valence. She’d paint mismatched
spindle back chairs with colors from the hall
and upstairs bath—turquoise, rose, even avocado.
She’d toss a quilt made from our outgrown skirts
over the faded couch and lie there,
holding the ache, rocking it to sleep. I’ve watched her
make soup from an old beef bone,
some celery, whatever else was left.
She’s repotted leafless plants, just to imagine
how callused stems might bloom.