i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always in bowls

folding, pinching, rolling the dough

making the bread

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always under water

sifting rice

bluing clothes

starching lives

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always in the earth

planting seeds

removing weeds

growing knives

burying sons

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always under

the cloth

pushing it along

helping it birth into

skirt

dress

curtains to lock out

night

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always inside

the hair

parting

plaiting

twisting it into rainbows

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always inside

pockets

holding the knots

counting the twisted veins

holding onto herself

let her hands disappear

into sky

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always inside the clouds

poking holes for

the rain to fall.

i heard your voice this morning

speaking from the foot of the bed

your quilt crawled to the

floor

as i lay down in the

first whisper of dawn.

i heard your voice this morning

the sound of cloth

a casual sound

a sunday morning

preparing to visit your lord

sound

half your life

half my life

half my daughter’s life

we all dream of landscapes

romantic deserts

white sands

connecting us together

a half dozen roses

i play out my life

listening every morning

for your voice

at the foot of the bed.