My hands are my mother’s hands:
wracked with worry, the veins
thick below the skin, soft
like earth worms in loam.
My hands are my mother’s hands:
holding my face, stunned
that I am still alive, stunned
to walk through another day.
My hands are my mother’s hands:
kneading the bread dough
for one more Thanksgiving,
one more meal together.
My hands are my mother’s hands,
empty like bones in the ground.
(November 28, 2021/ April 17, 2023)
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