Raid on the Pantry

                    It starts quietly enough:
      my mother looking for a pot
        and lid in the pantry cupboard.
          Pots, lids, roasters, toasters,
                              cookie sheets, pie pans, fry pans
             jam shelves, slither sideways.
                   Then the pots bang, clang.
                   Lids slide out on the floor, slip,
                   clatter, bash, crash.
                   Sound escalates
                   as she whacks, smacks
                   misfit pots and lids together.
                   We kids laugh ourselves sick
                   silently in the kitchen,

                   bent over as decibels rise,
                   as she seeks the elusive
                   matching lid to any pot.
                   I still convulse just thinking
                   about it—alone, ironing,
                   alone, kneeling in church—
                   swallowing a touch of mirth,
                   my cheeks suddenly wet
                   seeing so late: better
                   turn worse, the cancers,
                   the kids, the Latin scholar
                   stumped with singular endings.
                   It wasn't that funny at all.
                   But it still makes me laugh.