Ma's Hands, My Hands
My mother's hands are soft, damaged and heavy,
From the love her fingers felt when she held her first baby,
And the pain her knuckles endured when she pulled things closer
Clinging onto the rope that only bleeds her.
What will my hands say about me in years to come?
Will I carry the same pain, but with elegance in my walk,
Or will the burns on my palms indicate vulnerability?
The kind that gives away my strength, weaker than Ma's?
If everything she touched turned into sparkles,
Will the things that witness my touch turn into glitter or ashes?
The cigarette burns at my fingertips are surely not the same
As the burner stains her fingers, witnessed in the kitchen.
Will I make her proud, keeping my hands dirty, yet clean
Away from the responsibilities she was told to carry,
Closer to the passions, she told me to pursue
Or, will our hands resemble each other, a different path but the same pain?
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