Today I gained
an appreciation for salad spinning, and
with it, renewed awe for the work
my mother dripped
into every day she raised us.
I use the past tense, as if
she’s done, as if
she’ll ever stop.
Spinning the spinner, with force
and focus, I realize
I’ve been eating wet salads
since I moved out at 18, and why not,
when drying them
is this much goddamn effort.
But she’ll eat this salad, too,
so I lift the lid, inspect
the crisp romaine, identify
too many droplets to in good conscience
transfer to the bowl and I relid.
Hunch forward and spin again
spin again
until the dressing
my mother’s made and bottled
will stick.