Mama's Hands
The single pane of the kitchen window
Frames my mouther outside, kneeling into
Her vegetable garden.
Worms turn under the practiced calloused fingers
Of her hands, drilling into the earth,
Burying tomato seeds, mashing in fertilizer
With stiff, dirt-streaked knuckles.
The skinn of her hands dips and cracks
In dry rivers across her palms,
Toughened from work digging up our meals,
Beating laundry, and pressing against
The fevers on our heads.
She hides her hands when signing checks
At Hancock Bank, eyes the teller's
Fresh, white fingers, scrubs dirt from her
Own nails with the inside of her jeans pocket.
I tuck my hand in hers, tracing
The tan labor lines with my fingertips,
Outlining the hands that pack my sack lunches,
That braid ribbons into the
Tangled strands of my hair,
That will wrap me in my sheets tonight
As I sleep.