Into Dust

hands-36-beckon-mankus

 

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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