Carried
…
My grandmother’s hands
cut the biscuit dough
fold the socks smaller than fingers
wrap around the mug.
I see my mother’s hands
becoming hers, and mine,
growing into each other.
…
My grandmother wraps her hand around
my son’s and I can feel
my own palm pressed against hers.
…
My daughter’s fingers are perfect, smooth
from my womb, ready to grow into the knobs
and scales of women, mothers
who share the same hands,
the same love
handed down.
ooooooh I love it!!!! I’m linking it to facebook NOW!
Thanks so much for linking things you like, Katelin! I’m really looking to improve traffic on the blog and a link is like a great personal reference. xo
I love it too!
You are so talented!
*blushing* thank you, Davi!
I love this one so much. I think I like it even better than the one about the different lives to be had – I have always been obsessed with hands, and this is so what needs to be said in such a beautiful way. I was looking at my hands the other day and they are turning into mother’s – I love the way you wrote this poem. Yup, yup, it’s my favorite.
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