Every morning when I left for school she remade my bed,
swept the clean floor,
and opened the curtains to Mexican heat.
At two o'clock, she placed a bowl of hot soup
on the table and stood in the door way to la cocina
to watch me eat.
She cleared the table when I went to my room.
I shut the curtains,
turned on the fan, and took a siesta.
She scrubbed the dishes while I slept.
I laid by the pool with friends,
she opened the curtains again.
She spent her break in my room and watched me play.
She fixed supper while I showered and did my hair.
She folded laundry while I ate.
She called the cab when I left to spend the night
lip-to-lip and hip-to-hip
with dark-skinned boys in local clubs.
She unlocked the door when I came home
and shushed me when I giggled
and fell on the stairs.
She went to sleep after I was in bed.
She told me, when I arrived in Cuernavaca,
that she cooked and cleaned. That was her job;
I was not to interfere.
My indignation lasted one week,
maybe part of two. So easy to forget the girl my age
who cleaned.
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