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
And Then Opens Possibility 