In Her Kitchen

The creases in my father's mother's
      hand curl back, the lifeline
            of her palm pinned
                  to the ball of her thumb,

a tiny pit engraved
      by knitting needles, tacks,
            and knives. Her
                  blurring eyes

hover, pleading: eat.
      At the peak of morning,
            she grinds turkey thighs
                  for hamburger, whips

egg yolks for mayonnaise,
      her perfume garlic,
            dill and pepper.
                  So many

years of grandmotherly
      whispers, watermelon pickles
            in a low glass bowl, an apple peel coiling
                  on the counter like a snake. Shhh,

she knows a secret: when to add a pinch
      of sage, when to waive
            the chicken foot.
                  Look,

potato latkes, flour,
      spaghetti squash. A lump
            of sour cream floating in the blood-
                  red borscht.

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