seeming
broader and stronger
as they age,
my own arms
long to join
them,
wrap up in a
coil,
a royal
crown, a mess of roots.
always
grace-ful & sun-soaked,
the pride of
the family peeking
from a
sleeve, extending without apology,
it’s like my
mother is here.
I could swear
sometimes they trade
and it’s her
arm brushing mine.
thumb-print
impression from a polio vaccine,
mole spots,
sparse hairs,
bicep rising
and setting like lungs,
shoulder
bones wrapping the origin,
knuckle-long
fingers at the end
gripping the
steering wheel,
wiping down
the counter,
thrown
across the towel
at the beach,
resting for once.
arms I live
for,
arms that
can reach me.
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