Mother-in-Law

Cameron Morse

My mother-in-law You Qiong knees the washing

machine onto the balcony in rubber boots.

Most evenings she washes our clothes by hand

in front of the television, a plastic basin between her feet,

and hangs them above the kitchen’s cast-iron stove.

Most mornings I find the hot water heater already on

when I shuffle into the bathroom because she beat me to the button.

On the balcony, Theo discovers a shovel, carrying

its rust-bitten head in both hands. He picks up a repurposed can

of pineapple juice and looks at mosquitos drowned

at the bottom as if he might lift the sawed off rim to his lips.

I pluck a pinwheel from a flowerpot and entertain him

briefly by blowing it into a blur. You Qiong wraps

the mouth of the spigot with silicone tape as a way of getting

the hose to attach. Tells me to get lost, go back,

pouring detergent in her palm. She swishes her hand

around in the churning water’s wad of underwear and socks,

the sun-flowered blanket cover Theo peed on

in between diapers, his secondary sleep sack and onesie pajamas.

Afterwards, Theo and I grab handfuls of bubbles

from the diminishing mound of squishy foam. He runs them

to the makeshift bench and smears the board. Again and again,

he runs back for more foam and the board darkens with his disintegrating

handprints until You Qiong sees and makes us quit.