Marta

Clay-covered knuckles shove their way into dough

kneading ferociously

grabbing plump, round piles;

banging them onto the countertop.

flour is wedged in the cracks of her hands

peppered against marble;

Sifted, thick mounds

infested in clumps.

marta stands, preparing their food

forehead flashing with sweat.

Hair long and warm,

like grass.

the corners of her eyes are deep like

tree roots,

pink like craters,

dirty like war.

This place is her home now,

this is what she learned to love.

gray wisps line her face,

mouth pursed tightly-

lips thin as if

a golden needle.

The memories have vanished

like butterflies crawling from cocoons

soon, they’re invisible

useless, like fishing wire.

blue shoes press down on a wooden floor,

legs like tall sunflowers,

toes curled &

Trembling.

Skirt falling in pleats

as if lovely, summer curtains

knees buckled and shivering

she’s just barely there.

marta was always young at heart

always meant to share her story

but to this day, it remains untold

the tale rests on sunken lips.

to them, she is a non-entity

to them,

she is unimportant.

the hands that prepare their food will forever be just hands

without a past or a meaning.

Clay-colored knuckles scour away at a pan,

removing thickly coated grease

like everything, she erases it

forcefully and quickly

now, it’s engulfed

by a hungry

drain.