Mama's Hands
Mama’s hands--
They never held me
Mama’s hands--
They never rocked me to sleep
Mama’s hands--
They never styled my hair
or cleansed my tear-stained cheeks.
Mama’s hands--
Oh, how syrupy soft they were,
reeking of potent lavender perfume,
kissed with a silky shade
of honey brown.
And mama’s hands--
Did redden her lips,
blush her cheeks
As she wriggled into a long, gleaming gown
for a night of high-class
partying downtown.
Mama’s hands--
Were often cruel,
she’d let her force be known
Whenever she did slap me
with the smooth backside of her hand.
And Mama’s hands--
They never did lie,
they trembled with fear
Whenever Papa came home drunk and enraged.
Now Mama’s hands--
Are ripened with age,
knotted up,
unable to bend.
Mama’s hands--
Can’t wash her back
Or twist and braid
Her long, silvery hair.
Mama’s hands--
Were once alive with movement!
With lowered eyes
Mama touches my virgin hands,
her wiry fingers squeeze mine.