Lapsha

Flour drifts, a hush of winter in the sun’s throat,
dusting her knuckles, my fingertips, the years.
She kneads with the patience of rain carving stone,
folding, pressing, shaping the past into something
that will hold its shape, even in boiling water.
Her hands know the ritual, the pull and give
a dance of muscle, memory, devotion.
Mine fumble, too eager, stretching the dough too thin.
She clucks her tongue, takes my wrists,
guides them slow, steady, certain,
until the dough yields, pliant beneath us.
We cut the strands, long as river reeds,
soft as whispers yet stubborn as roots.
She drapes them across her bed,
a sky stitched with golden thread,
where dreams and noodles dry side by side.
She hums, and I hum too,
the tune worn soft from years of use.
Steam curls around us, salt clings to our skin.
Outside, the fields lean into the wind,
but inside, we stay—woven into her hands,
pulled taut like lapsha,
never breaking.
Steering

Lindsay is a clinical psychology doctoral candidate and freelance writer whose poetry explores the intersection of science, emotion, and the human experience. She has contributed to literary and scientific publications. When not writing or working with patients, she can be found running or adventuring with her dog, Butter.