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full hands

The cake bowl broke against cherry print,
dribbled batter at half the speed of blows.
Her hands lay unused at her sides,
defense not worth smearing his shirt.
Blood is hard to get out in the wash.

The first time, he caught her off guard
as she held a glass of juice, but she didn’t spill a drop.
Though the glass was half-empty, 
the accomplishment cheered her
as she cooled her cheek with frozen peas.

She’s since prided herself on her
balance, when getting smacked
holding hot coffee or folded towels,
though her Tuesday night circle
says pride is sinful. Her mother
always told her she should be proud
of her apple turnovers.

Tonight, the batter obscures her
cherry wallpaper, blurs the border
of baskets and lattice-topped pies.
Tonight, when she turned to
ask about frosting flavors,
she was left with empty hands.

 

 

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all written works © April Palleria, 2002