I have her hand
By Julie Derraik (@j.derraik), Wisteria Magazine
countless nights I
walked in on Vovó Nadia
bathing, meditating in crescent moons. a
moment, seemingly sacred so I always
stood behind, toes thawing on
kitchen tile, quiet gasps through
naive nostrils.
statuesque, she swallowed the bay window-
light only in folds of her skin
touched by inevitable damage
moving only shriveled wrist and an
almost conquered century
she wound that artifact
back
and forth
between a sliver of silver hair
turning over strands of decaying time and
wounded wisdom.
Vovó Nadia twirled this piece for hours
mulling over what must have been
until the tile turned cold and a face like mine
grinned with timeless abandon.
