Thursday, May 14, 2009

Poem #21 Thirty Poems in Thirty Days

Immigrant


My grandmother's hands
held crochet needles,
fashioned lace webs
of beige thread.

She baked honey cake
in pans
bought from a peddler
whose tongue stumbled
over English.

She skinned potatoes
into slivers,
watched them dance
in an iron skillet.

Her hands
moved slow
enough to hold
my face
until they became
part of me.

Linda © 2009
NaPoWriMo: 30 Poems in 30 days

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