writin' and whatnot

Day 8 of 30

MY MOTHER'S HANDS (clearly, I'm a bit obsessed with hands) My mother's hands look like covers on an unmade bed

each skin canal carrying years of cotton and catastrophe and white crap from the ass of Jim Crow

three little girls in the back of a Buick leaving South Carolina is there Washington, DC is there Dr. King's grave is there Black people are born into the mail room is there thirteen years for a college degree is there mothering children that weren't hers is there divorce is there cancer is there

hard times hard folks trapped between hard folds

of hands

that when gripping my cheeks and yanking me in close for mother-kiss should scrape and break skin and leave me her son bloody and raw and sad

but those hands somehow always feel soft and warm

like covers on an unmade bed