My Mother's Hands

Michelle Lin

They are beginning to spot
like over-ripened fruit
She holds them over her cup,
folding in the smoke like fine linen

With their fingers splayed,
they are lotus flowers,
pale white and reaching over
sweating kitchen pots
for a napkin

Sometimes at night,
I watch her sort laundry by the bed,
her hands like silver fish darting
in and under waves of clothes