My mother is fixing dinner again,

Stifling a gasp as her


Fingers with the purple and blue and green veins

Woven knottily about them

Gingerly lift the dancing pot lid

And steam stings her wrist.

I am wedged into a kitchen corner,

The hard edges of counter and cabinet

Cradling me as I stand

Squarely in her way,

Talking about nothing and

Drawing life from her voice and her stove.

The stumbling


Grumbling heart

That won’t give in

Nor let hope depart,

Which, same-yoked,

Stairsteps away from sin,

May yet get in-

May yet get in!