there’s a great intensity to
the way her hands hang heavy
with jewelry even as she holds them
in front, plucking at each other
betraying what her smile hides
even to her, perhaps:
the children knew,
from the moment they could know anything
that they could not rely on her
to keep them warm
or teach them to love vegetables
or pick up the pieces
when the world shattered their tiny porcelain faces
when the fabric between them tore
after all, no one had helped her
and now
even as everyone has grown up
along the seams
the stitching that holds is haphazard,
their fingertips are hardened by needle pokes
<><><>
BY-NC-SA 4.0