My Mother’s Hands
Tuesday February 29th 2000, 3:05 pm
Filed under: Poetry

I stand behind her chair
As a small, hot breath on her arm
I lean my cheek against the wood and smell her
Bleach cut with Maja and wine
I watch her eat rice and beef in blood red sauce
Swirls of paprika and sour cream
I stare at her neck, long and smooth
Like a porcelain swan
Always reaching, stretching, straining
And then pulling back to strike
Her arms like wet wings flap at the air
And glide with phrases
And settle against the table

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