SHE WAVES GOODBYE FROM THE WINDOW
BY JUNE SARACENO
Beneath the suggestion of skin,
an intricate genealogy of bone,
and blue bloodlines map
the back of your hand.
For years you were shielded, sheathed
in perpetual and proper white gloves,
until, unveiled, the skin became a
gentle drape of gauze, soft crepe.
Mama, even as you began to fade
into spidery scrawl of your
earlier signature self,
there was a delicate force.
Your last wave lifted and lighted,
brought back a cool touch on summer evenings
when fireflies winked beyond the screens.
Soft, soft as a lullaby, your hands.