Grandmas’ hands should be boney and knurled.
Hers are puffed up because her heart is failing.
Puffy as the bread dough she kneads.
Flour-filled ditches criss-cross her hands like
Irrigation tracks on the farm.
Venusian canals meander and wind-
Double-yellow lines laid down by a drunk.
How did you feel when you mixed up the sugar and salt?
We all laughed but did you really feel like crying?
Looking up, she smiled and squeezed me.
“Don’t be silly, honey. Everyone cries when they chop onions.”
(This poem came from the exercise “Five Easy Pieces” by Richard Jackson in the book The Practice of Poetry.)