1969 Beets
Today my father gave me jars of beets.
My mother canned them two years ago.
The colors were glowing.
I opened one jar, the old type,
Glass-topped with orange rubbers.
The juice splashed my hand bright.
The stains are instant
And bring me back summers
When I would help by slipping the skins
From the gleaming hearts.
My mother’s hands,
Brown-skinned, wide palmed;
With slender fingers and long.
I remember how they felt when she patted me
And soothed, cool on my forehead,
Strong in my hand.
I miss her warm brown eyes,
Wide-toothed smile and the way she dropped her h’s,
Cha Cha hips she could shimmy.
But when I close my eyes I can see
Her hands.
Working the soil.
Pulling, rinsing, cooking, skinning,
Packing those red beets into clear jars.
