Rachel Dacus

Apple Pie Order The hands that cut the apple were white-fleshed as the silence in our kitchen. Her sob of breath. Cotton cloths, simple tasks. Her hands skinned and delved a pale core from each green globe, sliced smiles and dropped them in the dough's lap. The warm animals of my mother's hands soothed my forehead, tugged and tucked corners, tails, hairs, and sheets. Shoved me forward, held me back. Towel-wrapped rigor, I knew their cradle and slap. Above their industry I knew were tears. I dared not raise my eyes for fear of seeing fear in hers, so I watched the hands Make a small, safe corner for sweet flesh to be sectioned, layered, sugared, snugged under thin-rolled crust. She always knew what came next. I never do, but often remember how short, round fingers made do, patched holes, kept going though nicked, scraped and scalded. Ten trudging dough-faced soldiers. Rosebuds furled in flour-scented might.

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