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)