A big American car parked in front of a bakery.
Two women sitting in the front seat:
sisters, it looks like, each in
her seventies, powder-peach complected,
the driver's hair gone plain grey, the other's hair
tinged with blue. Grey has Blue's left hand
in her own hand, Blue's palm turned
upward. Is Grey reading that palm? No.
She's taking Blue's right hand, and with
the index finger of that same sere hand
she's drawing letters in the palm, writing out
a message so rapid & dexterous it's clear
this has been going on for years--no year
less intense or less loving than this.
The poem walks past that car,
recognizes the ceremony there,
takes off his hat, nods his head.
Contents | Mudlark No. 3