My hands have become a New Englander's.
They match my soul, my birthplace, my feet.
Cracked, hardened, and dry.
My hands are only 22 years old, but they are working hard:
One fissure on my index knuckle from a jacket which I
Zip up, zip down, zip up.
My hands look like they were wet and I dipped them in flour
Yet are brown from the sun, even in winter.
My hands hurt all the time:
To make a fist, to wash, to moisturize.
They are prideful and hardening
Like the oak tree's root under the snow.
They stand for my recent past.
My lack of sleep, my sore back, my saved money.
My hands are not as beautiful as the old woman's hands
That give me change for her coffee every morning:
Her hands feel like hard plastic
Swollen with blood,
Like 70 years in New England.
Her hands are my weeping willow, which,
Knotted and sagging,
Still grandly lives.
