Mother’s Hands
Sometimes
I would pinch the top of her hand
and then mine
quickly, watch her skin drift
back to place while mine
snapped.
I’d poke and press the purple
vein that stood the highest,
the one below the third knuckle
on her left, say,
Ew, Mom,
feel it slide back and forth
as I wiggled it hard
against her bone.
And later, when my fingers
grew longer and thinner,
my palms fuller,
we’d be sitting on the plane
bored above the ground
or on the couch with bodies
touching,
still and slowed from
the Minnesota cold falling
everywhere outside,
and I’d hold onto her wrist,
press her hand into mine,
watch the way our webs
matched up,
our pinkies curved and
crease lines hit,
then out of habit,
I’d pinch her skin again,
plucked and pulled between my fingers,
not want to watch it fall.
