by Gail White.
Their skin was liver-spotted, bruised,
wrinkled, the veins so prominent
I was repelled. I was a child
and they were old, long-widowed, shapeless,
generous, kindly, full of tales
and folklore, old Southern ladies
who never put a hat on the bed
in all their lives, because that was unlucky.
To me, sitting under the table
as they gossiped and played canasta,
they seemed old enough not to mind dying,
gesturing with their ugly hands,
those brown spots, blue ridges I didn’t
imagine that my hands could have,
for I would never be their age,
that age I have now attained
along with their hands,
but not their wisdom.