Dayton Street

My mother sits in her living room,
An hour between jobs.

She glances down at her hands,
for a moment she sees

A wound from dry ice,
placed into the cupped cobs

of her delicate hands,
skin ripped raw.

She is 63 now,

her hands are healed.
but she squeezes at one

as if to wake the other,

and pulls down her sleeves.