Fingers open the pea pods on my grandparents back porch
a mudra repeated year after year when combines pull up vines
and pour the peas into the tractors for baby food.
Now shelling peas at work for dinner I look at my nails.
Long. Dirty.
An hour later they are clean short and unchanged.
The shadowed hall way echoes the full silence of absent youth.
I look for the peas in the shells
they stay thick even empty
peas dried from too long in the shell
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