Old Mothers of Ohio
All of their fingers are wet.
Rough
red, white
palms damp-dried in belly pats
to wide waisted aprons.
Pulsing blue trails over
transparent hands,
mountainous knuckles with
old peaks worn,
creased as ancient maps
of women’s work.
Hot steam clouds over Cloroxed laundry
over Spic-N-Spanned floors,
over gravied pans
buried deep in porcelain wash sinks
make halos.
Then . . .
in the quiet death of summer Sundays,
footstooled feet wiggle bent toes
in unlaced glory,
stirring an evening breeze
that gently lifts their neatly turned hems
and clean white half-slips.
1997 copyright by Lisa Trocchia
no use or copy with arrangement:
we3@bright.net