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.
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.
