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Hands
I remember when my mother’s hands
began to look old. I see her
in my fingers—loosened skin, wrinkled,
lined like the notebook paper I hate,
knuckles more noticeable, thinner,
obvious bones.
My hands have been worn
in different ways—no children,
no defending, no prayers.
I have pulled horses to a stop,
held pens and poems, touched
more men than I desire, held onto my life.
My hands release, are better at leaving
than receiving, have clung
and in clinging learned to stop marking
their own palms with nail marks.
I hold them up as if to Thomas or Judas
or Peter and wait for the one
who understands my lifeline
is the same as his to put his palm
against mine like a windowpane.
Together, we can melt the frost
from the glass.
—Gina M. Tabasso
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