My Mother’s Hands
My mother’s hands are like cocoyam leaves,
Broader than the sky; rougher than granite
Waving at strangers on the edge of the road,
With rusted skin and rough, serrated edges.
She is brave, bold and sturdy at heart,
with beacon hands from sassy shoulders,
Her hands are the black and crowded sky,
Bearing the moon, the sun and the stars,
This gives her the gift of the ordinary,
Like assorted landscapes on wrinkled canvas;
A motley of crisscrossing lines and scars
She is no star, but stars came from her hands,
Washed in vinegar water, mired in mirrors.
Her hands are a meadow of destinies,
Rough and dusty like an archive, a grey file
Where our names and stories star with grace.
I have made peace with my mother’s hands
As the side of life, I have chosen to remember
• • •
Jonathan Ukah is a graduate of English and Law living in England. His work has appeared in several publications and anthologies.