Her Hands, My Knuckles

Washing dishes, warm water, the suds

like clouds. I watched my hands, the buds

of knuckles, scarred and a little gnarled,

and stopped, suddenly unhurled

into a mirror.

Her hands. The same faint lines, the curve

of fingers, the way the tendons swerve

just under the skin. A sudden, tight

ache, remembering her, day and night,

working.

This is her legacy, this bone and flesh.

Her strength, her stories, a tangled mesh

of touch and labor, reaching through time.

My own palm, a rhyme, a chime

of hers.