These are my mother’s hands:

wracked with worry, the veins

thick below the skin, soft

like worms in loam.

These are my mother’s hands:

holding my face, stunned

that I am still alive

to walk through another day.

These are my mother’s hands:

kneading the bread dough

for another Thanksgiving,

one more meal together.

These are my mother’s hands,

empty like bones in the ground.

(November 28, 2021)