Mug Falling

It's a slo-mo disaster unfolding
on the draining board.
The tilt of the chopping block
keeling forward,
the slide of the dish drainer toward the edge.
The nudge of the mug.
I am barefoot, washing up
you're just in from work in shoes.
We hear our own gasps at the smash
and I'm stuck, transported back
on the soles of my feet
to my mother in kitchens where glasses smashed,
accidents or angers,
spreading danger to every corner.
How she'd command 'stay still'
'now, nobody in bare feet move!'
and there we'd be frozen to the lino
as if all but where we stood had fallen away
to the abyss
and only standing still would save us.
But it was someone in shoes
with a dustpan who always did.
Today that's you, gently brushing round my heels
sweeping peril away so tenderly
I could cry.