Katherine Frost
Like the Back of my Hand
Could you mistake anyone’s hands for your own?
I could. My mother’s.
She’d offer them, warning:
Too many washdays, don’t let yours get like mine.
And I haven’t. But now and then
when I’m not
particularly looking -
milking slaty streams
from the mop, or spooling curls
of spud into the sink -
something about the bone
of forearm and wrist
draws my eye, has me check
for knuckles like stones, a wedge thumb:
she’s there at my elbow, delving
in soapy curds, and with time
to share a joke.
If I don’t turn.
Page(s) 8
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