Jeanne Becker

The fine linen tablecloth
that lies at the bottom of the cedar chest
has no stains.

The recipes in the cookbook
for tofu, turnip, and tripe
have no stains.

Those too-tight t-shirts
stuffed at the bottom of the drawer
have no stains.

But my bright checked tablecloth,
the one that fits my table perfectly,
has wine and beet and cherry stains
that refuse to come out.

My recipes for Chinese stir fry, cheese fondue,
and chocolate chip cookies
are soaked in butter and oil stains,
with pages torn and tattered.

And that favorite t-shirt of mine,
the one that’s big and soft and comfy,
the one with coffee and paint and grass stains,
is the one I refuse to throw out.