Her hands are cracked,
Aged and calloused from
Long nights filled with warm soapy water and
Soaking dishes in sinks.
Her husband is loud,
Aged and boisterous after
Lengthy meals with multiple courses; he loves to soak his
Bread in soups (though she tells him time and again it's uncultured).
What does she know of culture?
No time to read, or see
No time to even watch the changing world outside
The window over the sink where a yard is
Shared with the neighbors and their son.
He's tall where her husband is short,
Slim where her husband fell to seed.
She watched him go from ungainly colt towards agile youth-
And glowed with pride whenever he gained some triumph,
As if he were her own.
And then, innocent pride turned towards
Something else. Something frightening, and scary, and
Thrilling. A new emotion clouded her mind when she
Saw her own daughter's change come.
As her daughter began to awaken and to question
The woman began her own reawakening.
She began to question the stolid filth of a man she once loved
And her own worn and wearied hands.
She saw the smooth unblemished fingers of her daughter,
Delicate, thin, and spritely- symbols of her youth and freedom
And grew jealous. And when she saw that
He also saw her daughter's fingers, her heart turned to stone.
She began to dream then, that it was she with
The beautiful fingers. That she would run them over
His trembling lips and lightly brush his eyes.
She dreamed with her daughter's hands and mouth.
For months and months, the three danced this
Quiet dance. A mother pulling strings, and living through
A loving daughter. A boy in love with ideas and words and women
And fingers. Gentle, young and nimble fingers.
And as quickly as it was begun, it was over.
A young daughter ran into a welcoming mother's arms and
Cried out, saying "He's in love with another!"
And a mother's heart skipped a beat.
And later that night,
As a mother bent over her familiar sink with
Familiar smells, she saw a light from his window
And saw his beckoning hand.
Her husband is loud,
Aged and boisterous after
Lengthy meals with multiple courses; he loves to soak his
Bread in soups (though she tells him time and again it's uncultured).
What does she know of culture?
No time to read, or see
No time to even watch the changing world outside
The window over the sink where a yard is
Shared with the neighbors and their son.
He's tall where her husband is short,
Slim where her husband fell to seed.
She watched him go from ungainly colt towards agile youth-
And glowed with pride whenever he gained some triumph,
As if he were her own.
And then, innocent pride turned towards
Something else. Something frightening, and scary, and
Thrilling. A new emotion clouded her mind when she
Saw her own daughter's change come.
As her daughter began to awaken and to question
The woman began her own reawakening.
She began to question the stolid filth of a man she once loved
And her own worn and wearied hands.
She saw the smooth unblemished fingers of her daughter,
Delicate, thin, and spritely- symbols of her youth and freedom
And grew jealous. And when she saw that
He also saw her daughter's fingers, her heart turned to stone.
She began to dream then, that it was she with
The beautiful fingers. That she would run them over
His trembling lips and lightly brush his eyes.
She dreamed with her daughter's hands and mouth.
For months and months, the three danced this
Quiet dance. A mother pulling strings, and living through
A loving daughter. A boy in love with ideas and words and women
And fingers. Gentle, young and nimble fingers.
And as quickly as it was begun, it was over.
A young daughter ran into a welcoming mother's arms and
Cried out, saying "He's in love with another!"
And a mother's heart skipped a beat.
And later that night,
As a mother bent over her familiar sink with
Familiar smells, she saw a light from his window
And saw his beckoning hand.
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