Peeling

She was at the sink, the peeler going

steady across the potato. I sat

at the table watching, the slowing

rhythm of her hands. And that

was when I saw it: the knuckles

swollen slightly at each joint,

the skin gone loose. What buckles

in me—I'm still at that point,

trying to name it. The bruise

below her thumb, yellow-green,

old enough to fade. The news

of it she hadn't seen

fit to mention. She was humming

something low. The bowl filling.

I looked at my own hands. Coming

back to hers: the same building,

the same bones further along.

I said nothing. She kept peeling.

The skins fell into the wrong

pile in the sink. The feeling

came late, on the drive back,

the way it usually does.

The knuckles. The bruise. The track

the skin is taking. Because

it takes somewhere.