i am missing my show right now
a choice guided by the wrinkles in my fingers, around the knuckles;
they look like roses, fully bloomed
the outlines of petals migrating towards dryness

i type faster
a rhythm in each stroke
as the lines fade away for a moment
when the knuckles bend and groove
against the keyboard

my mother’s hands
my mother’s eyes
it seems it all belongs to someone else

they say i still have my words,
though

even if the language doesn’t dance the same


my mother’s child,
never truly a daughter;
a father’s mistake comes back
to make my life better

the lines spotted now,
the morning’s dew escaping

there’s grayness on my hands,
i don’t recall seeing it in my mother

and i wonder if there’s a reason for
that.

05/09/2007

Posted on 05/10/2007
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