Blackbird Archive← v12n2, Fall 2013Poetry · Volume 12, Number 2
Memory
Grey is more reliable.
Doughy hands don’t fit in
the frames of another color.
Up to her elbows, my mother’s arms
are seen only in grey squares.
Her fingers have grown into sweet dough.
The staircase railing she bakes
is never ready.
Even now I could fall down from here.
