The single pane of the kitchen window 

Frames my mouther outside, kneeling into

Her vegetable garden.

Worms turn under the practiced calloused fingers

Of her hands, drilling into the earth,

Burying tomato seeds, mashing in fertilizer

With stiff, dirt-streaked knuckles.

The skinn of her hands dips and cracks

In dry rivers across her palms,

Toughened from work digging up our meals,

Beating laundry, and pressing against

The fevers on our heads.

She hides her hands when signing checks

At Hancock Bank, eyes the teller's

Fresh, white fingers, scrubs dirt from her 

Own nails with the inside of her jeans pocket.

I tuck my hand in hers, tracing 

The tan labor lines with my fingertips,

Outlining the hands that pack my sack lunches,

That braid ribbons into the

Tangled strands of my hair,

That will wrap me in my sheets tonight

As I sleep.