Poem – Elizabeth (By Layla Lenhardt)

Elizabeth,

Mother of my mother, her knotted knuckles cradled

my scraped elbows, the heaviness of my childhood

heart. Her beauty unrepeatable, blistering. She stands

hunched over the sink, peeling potatoes, buttering bread,

in the yellow light of the pre-war kitchen she is ageless.

When I think of home, I think of her,

kindness dripping from her embrace like honey.

The wrinkles of her cheeks soft, like crushed velvet.

We are the same faux rose in a dusty, crystal vase.

I am cut from the long sinews of her arms,

I am stitched together with her veins.

The treble of my voice is the child of her voice,

that timeless, velvet rasp.