My first memory of you
is not your face or voice,
but rather your hands and
forearms, slick and soapy,
holding me for my bath
in the kitchen sink.
I clinked measuring spoons.
A Startex calendar
towel with roosters and
chickens hung on the wall
over the stove. White light
flowed through the one window,
warming the counter top.
Have you noticed how I
always stare at you hands?
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