White display china
and unmarked carpet,
earned with pruned fingers
and disinfectant-dappled shirts,
also earn the comment
“she’s a maid”
and laughter.

It rings as
unimportant,
comical,
but to her
it rings
and rings
and rings.

She hears the scars,
whispering then weeping,
wilting under the low pitch
of laughter and the unspoken,
conspicuous hiss of
subservient,
submissive,
subpar.

Perhaps
it’s par for the course,
but she assumed
spouse and sister
suggested respect
instead of served it.

Promotions
and growing apart,
grasped with glee
and indifference,
later grasp a reconnecting,
rementioning of the comment
and reawakened laughter.

It rings as
unmattering,
inoffensive,
but to her
it rings
and rings
and rings.

They do not sense
the quips she carries,
actions she ignores,
concepts she accepts,
all she withers
beneath,
behind,
below.

Though
the laughter fades,
like dust on a bookcase,
a thought swims, settles back,
and she wonders
if she is a maid
of her making.