Queens without a Realm

Woman Sweeping Her Home
by Jean Francois Millet

Weep not for our sisters who used to be wives,
who rocked babies to sleep in other incarnations,
maybe grandchildren. Softer, rounder, they've evolved
into something else. Not forced. They've chosen,
throwing out once-cherished titles with the trash
they gathered quietly and took out to the curb.
Just The Maid. Their decision. A subtle shift
of expectation and reality to suit them so 
neglect and too little respect could no longer choke them.
They do their jobs, do them Damn Well. As wives,
they spent more time on love and such; as maids
they use that time to keep and sweep and tend.
As mothers, grandmothers, they coddled and cooed
and clucked their tongues and guided, or tried.
They do their work now, silently staying out
of others' plans and business, worries and troubles.
Listen closely, hear them hum a surprisingly cheerful tune:
because a job's a job, you see, even a good one,
even these jobs...until better offers come along.
Weep instead for those who'll lose them,
who'll one day remember what it was like,
who'll get a glimpse of what they missed
before they treated the royalty in their midst
as Just the Maid.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

A little dark, but how many women are out there, unnoticed by the very ones who should be giving them hugs for their hard work and thoughtfulness? An army of grandmothers, especially, who are raising children not their own because of the absence of parents...or wives, who can't compete with the excitement of a career or other women or plain old selfishness. They've been taken for granted too long, and I wanted to give them a voice.