My hands are my mother’s;
the veins, like earthworms,
roll beneath thin skin.
As if wringing rags in worry,
I massage the arthritis
burrowing at my wrists.
The ache wears me—
like a sand gnaws
old granite blocks,
until I, too, become sand,
indistinguishable
from the storm’s
final dry heavings.
(April 21, 2018)
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