Her Hands at Rest

A blue bowl waits on the table, patient as a patch of sky. It has held pears, keys,

Time takes the things you thought were permanent.

The first month, I kept calling. Not on purpose.

Mamá es la primera palabra que aprende la boca, y la última que olvida el cuerpo.

My mother never measured flour. Her hands knew when the dough had listened long enough.

All winter my mother carried my coat across her arm because I was too warm,