my hands look more like my mother's / a poem

Poem by: Jessica Carenco / Image by: Beth Kirby

on Tuesday afternoons
when I am alone in the house
as the laundry tumbles,
I make bread;
and my hands look more like my mother's.

flour-dusted fingers
working steady, patient
ushering the puffed, drifting-up,
white cloud in the window.

with quiet eyes
I turn the round over,
humming to the steady harmony
of hands at work,
and wonder,
and thinking,
and prayer.

then, slinking into the slow and rest
of ticking clocks
and running water,
I wait for the golden masterpiece
that will crackle when cut—
steam straight-rising—
then, I will fold my flour-dusted fingers;
and my hands look more like my mother's.