My Mother's Hands - Poem by Zaina Anwar
I will always remember her hands,
small with rounded palms,
like the softly yielding flesh
of a ripe summer tomato.
Her nails are beautifully shaped
in a natural carving as if
sculpted by God in a special moment
of tender care for his trembling Eve.
I will always remember the strength
of her hands curled into tight fists
as she has kneaded
day after day,
dough for columns of flat bread,
with knuckles sharply protruding
and pale with the force
of her undefeated will.
I will always remember them burning
of energy connecting
through the blue-green network
of her sombre veins;
I have always maintained,
a delicate fascination,
for the dimpled beauty of my mother's hands.
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