Marge always wants to hold my hand,
Paula too—but she wants to caress it,
to run her fingers across my fingers
until she smiles and lets go, unlike Marge,
who never wants to let go and holds too tight.

With Paula, I feel like rosary beads.
With Marge, I am a life buoy
bobbing in rough water.

Bonita always reaches out when I walk past,
her hand poised to turn into a wave
if I don’t reach right back and hold it.
Gerta rubs my hands if they are cold.
She would like to be my mother.

Audrey and I hold hands like sisters,
even though she is my mother
and I still feel like her daughter.
We are so close, the two of us,
she can read her future in my palm.

I can read my future too, in hers,
and in all these women’s hands.