Second prize

My Mother Won a Prize

by Susan Baker

My mother won a prize for hand-writing once, 
but now the letters fight her as they form, 
the pen obtuse in her trembling hold. 
Lines stagger and skitter away from 
the shapes that she intends. 
Her hands, liver-spotted, deeply veined, 
almost transparent in their frailty, 
never at rest even in her lap 
where they twist and judder to a rhythm 
embedded somewhere deep within her. 
I hold her hand. It stills briefly, 
flesh against flesh, 
then trembles in mine 
like a scared child.