February 2014 - Comments Off

little hands

Tayler Jones '16

we barefoot hop step
carefully choosing extrusions of moss
over the growl of gnarled street rock
to fig tree canopy.
press thumbnails into leaves, beads
of milk well up like crescent moons
make skin itch.
we speak to the ghost farm
that burned down on this soil,
little fingers fumble through earth
for rusty horse shoes.

i wander into Nana’s room
search her naked shoulder
for warm skin goodnight.
she lurches forward
twisted, alien like the other shadows
i step back think
i lost her.
until late night TV splashes
seasick blue and there is
cat print cotton night gown,
pink foam rollers
leather hands wrinkled by worry
washed up, asleep
on shore.

Published by: in Issue 1: Fall 2013, Poetry, Volume 70

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