Pie Making

she bends over the sink and
water trickles on fingers (cracked with use)
which curl around the flashing silver
handle of the knife
as she whittles away red
skin leaving
white flesh exposed to light

naked fruit rests in a white enamel
bowl by her elbow
each waiting to be sliced
and hollowed of its core

the mound has grown in the bowl
so tall she turns off the water
and begins to slice
water dries on her hands which stick
with the transparent blood
of apples

a crust drapes over the pie pan
and apples sliced and cored
tossed now with sugar and flour and
cinnamon
fall into the dish

her hands are floured
dusted white in cracks and nail beds
as she unrolls the top and crimps the edges

(her hands are washed and dried)
then she slides the pie into the oven

after she squints at the timer to set it
she presses clean hands to her back
and tries to straighten out the pain
into a thin manageable line