her rolling pin

her rolling pin

standing there, in the kitchen – 
where everything is worn 
to the point it becomes shiny again
from all the contact and touching over time

this kitchen – 
where she’s stood hundreds -
no thousands - of times before 
where the floor holds her feet
laced up into shoes like a corset
holding everything together

wearing her apron – 
the one with the lone flower rising
toward a sun and blanketed 
in a bed of spring grass – 
its ties wrapped around her waist 
like a child’s hands pressing into clay

removing the rolling pin from the drawer
grabbing it with 
the one remaining handle
that fits her hand like a glove

reaching into the flour canister
massaging the snowy powder onto the wood
like bathing a child in soapy water 
her palm pressing, her fingers grazing

pushing the powdered pin 
onto the moist mound of dough
beginning to roll, back and forth, 
steady glides, a rhythmic and 
somehow comforting movement, 
like dancing to her favorite song, 
slow and sanguine  

she kneads the dough like a prayer, 
grasping and pushing away
grasping for all she dreamed her life could be
then pushing away all that life has given her
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