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.