a transcription of the poem read on the home page of this issue

by Jaki Shelton Green

i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always in bowls
folding, pinching, rolling the dough
making the bread
i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always under water
sifting rice
blueing cloths
starching lives
i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always in the earth
planting seeds
removing weeds
growing knives
burying sons
i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always under
the cloth
pushing it along
helping it birth into
a skirt
a dress
curtains to lock out the
night
i know the grandmother one has hands
but they were always inside
the hair
parting
plaiting
twisting it into rainbows
i know the grandmother had hands
but they were always inside
pockets
holding the knots
counting the twisted veins
holding onto herself
lest her hands disappear
into sky
i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always inside the clouds
poking holes for the
rain to fall.

Poem copyright 2005 by Jaki Shelton Green. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Jaki Shelton Green on The Fight & The Fiddle: “Stillbirth,” “The Communion of White Dresses” and “For the lover who eats my poems…” 

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt