Thick

My mother stands on a ladder,
roller dripping into a pan of
lumpy, thick white paint mixed
with flecks of rust, leftover
from the time my husband
painted with me on our then
new bedroom walls. Now
my mother strains on a ladder
to help me paint a room apart
from him, holds her tongue,
stops to wipe the sweat
from her neck, then moves her
hand to her back; holds her pain.
She brushes back advice
she bursts to share, disapproval
covered with thick coats
of love.

Lines

My hands are ugly -
too small,
fingers short and fat.
When they're flat,
the knuckles look like
pale brussel sprouts.
My nails are bitten jagged -
traces of blood, torn edges.
They have never been 'done'.
You have 'old lady hands',
my college boyfriend said,
looking at the lines winding
in ragged swirls into the crease
between my finger and thumb.
These hands have been
calloused by canoe paddles,
snow shovels, steering wheels,
strollers, pencils and pens.
They are beat up, scratched and stained,
but my fingers can point into the distance,
and I can make a fist.

Svea Barrett-Tarleton is a poet, (Paterson Literary Review, LIPS, Comrades, Allen Ginsberg Finalist), teacher (High school Creative Writing and Honors American Lit.) and mother (three boys - ages 9, 7 and 2), and lives in Glen Rock, NJ.