I
My mother's hands
are ornaments.
Veins coil under skin
soaked in age,
like grease rainbowing
street water.
Cotton and metal
are tucked into her
breast crease.
She misses being a wife.
Seated opposite, defensive,
I hope like a handmaiden for
a stop to this posturing, for
an exit from strategy.
II
I receive clipped articles
from my mother concerning
raped women and
the health benefits of salmon.
Our mother writes to Laura of how
she could have acted differently.
It is a numbered list.
My sister folds her reaction
with a dish towel, politely.
My mother laughs her
edgeless southern laugh.
I can decide that things will end
just fine.
I take this decision home
and bring it to bed,
curl my knees around it
and steal its warmth.
It is full of rounded parts.
© 2004 Jessica Rasile
quite ironically discovered her affinity for the written word while studying business at the University of Texas. After graduating, she settled in Boston and is now pursuing a career in publishing at Houghton Mifflin.
Refinishing old furniture and trying new recipes with spinach are two of her favorite hobbies.
