My fingers have smelled of garlic for days flavoring skin and simmering lightly as I rub tiny cracks in my right index, etchings stained brown from powdery espresso grind. The scent I've tried to cut with oatmeal and almond soaps, lavender oils, and pink lotion of sun-ripened raspberry. Though just as my mother's hands held the feisty juices of vidalia onions and celery from seasonal sautes in her mother's iron skillet a pungence remains communicating and giving tongue to a silent memory of how she would caress my small, fidgety fingers when we sat together in church or the graceful clicking tips like castanets on piano keys as she taught me pounding hymns. Her wedding ring flashing in the afternoon sun and I was feeling lazy and yearned to play outside and roam the woods just as she used to climb sulking pecan trees when her mother wanted to teach her how to fry fish and skillet cornbreads.
Reason for writing:
I wrote this poem for my mother.
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Mary Katherine--Cancer.