Mama’s hands
A poem
I have my Mama’s hands;
they’re good for making,
or holding a hot rag
to our pounding forehead.
They’re also good
at doing things
we’d rather not
do at all,
— like being quiet, and
— not expecting too much.
We kept the worst of things
inside the pores on the back
of our hands.
Like the times in grade-school
when we each felt stupid
in the front of our whole class.
And how, Mama and I,
separated only by childhood,
lowered our head, and
pushed esteem aside
for stupidity.
We knew that nothing
was too big to hide
under the skin.
Later,
we added ugly.
Eventually,
included shame.
Now, our hands are tired,
gripping tightly to family legacies
too hard to hold.
To make room
we have to let go
of everything else.
Meaning,
we have felt only
some of the things
we have touched.
