Inheritance

I have old hands

the other girls always

have smoothness

the buttery skin

of a young lady

tapered fingers

thin wrists

and I

have artist’s hands

blocky, solid

latticed with lines

that web and waver

crinkling, across my palms

shining gunmetal grey

with graphite

I’m not sure I believe

in reincarnation

but my hands sure do

my mother always says

I have an old soul

and I must have

borrowed hers

because our hands

are the same

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