Bone on bone, the skeleton in my hand
wants rest. Wrist, thumb, the index
finger wielding trowel, shovel, knife,
pen, comb, brush, pinch of spice
wish to be done. Their creak and ache
have not yet built a monument
to pain, not like the hands my mother’s
friend held out as balm to anyone—
so misshapen, knobbed and cricked
as if the skin were filled with stones.

And yet those hands dipped chicken 
into batter, eased pieces into sizzling fat, 
shaped biscuits, dropped the aging dog
a tender morsel, and, curved
grotesque around a whiskey glass,
kept dinner moving toward our plates. 
Summer crab feasts in her yard, hands
that still could snap the spidery legs,
peel the brittle apron, split the crab
in half, bend just enough to pry
out white, sweet, steaming flesh.

Hands clasping mine when my mother
died, and later when I pledged a life
of love. Hands that could not close, 
and yet with hard-earned patience
cradled pain, and joy, and death. 

My one hand, stiff, unfinished,
next to Alma’s hands.
                        

Our only cat, the one we couldn’t replace
because she didn’t jump on table or counters,
never shredded the drapes.

Beside her, the cat my son and his wife
couldn’t leave with the vet for “disposal,”
couldn’t bury without a yard of their own.

These cats never met in life, but now
keep quiet company where no fluttering
bird can light their eyes.

Scattered around them beneath underbrush,
dozens of mice my husband trapped
and buried, as if these cats

were pharaohs, supplied with all they need
in the afterlife— their favorite blankets,
delicious prey, sun and moon and stars.
No one calling their names to bring them in.