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.