my hands evolve closer
to my mother’s with age
though they’ve known
far different worlds
you’d think the physics
wouldn’t apply
her hands: battle ridden
at 30, painting the condo
she saved every penny to own
tiling the floors until her back ached
paint splattered beneath her nails
as she flicked cards across
the green felt at commerce casino
graveyard shift. texas hold’em
to come home and hold me
the rhythmic tap
that put me to sleep
her hands carried our world
mine: thirty years only knowing
the soft violence of typing
no more than a pencil callous
i traded up
from tiles and poker chips
to computer keys and zoom pitches
luxuries carved
from my mother’s palms
yet they wither the same:
lines between knuckles
like rings on a tree
a vein rising
moving from palm to fist
nails that won’t take polish
knuckles bare of rings
pinkies so short
they barely touch the ring finger’s bone.
my mother’s hands,
teaching mine
how to grow old
if wormholes existed,
and we collapsed time
our hands,
both thirty…
I’d give her a squeeze
you did amazing
Nat's Corner 