genealogy of hands

afloat on a thin raft of light
in the upstairs bedroom
my father is a baby
his small body steadied
by his mother’s hand
he sits in a porcelain basin
in an inch of water

it’s summer and my grandmother is alive
she rinses the soapy water off his shoulder
with the water from her cupped hand
they don’t know about me
my grandmother’s baby-body
is travelling at the speed of light
thirty years away from the summer
morning when her mother bathed her
in water from another well

my hands lay buried in the future
between layers of mornings
afternoons and nights
and the hands of my sons
tiny as stamens
are held somewhere
as flowers are held
in the dreams of seeds
carried on pollen
riding on the heels of bumblebees

Julie Berry