Mother Hands

I was small, her hands were rough-

like moisturizer didn’t exist,

not that she couldn’t have it, she didn’t want it.

And I didn’t want her to touch me-

no, not a reflection on our relationship,

but every time her barn-roughed palms snagged,

tore at my spinach satin bed-spread, dramatic

eight year old hands slammed over ears-

I whined.

But she’s got it down now-hands petal-soft-

now that she doesn’t tuck me in.