Filomena

Her hands large
calloused
like those of a construction worker
strong
from snapping chicken necks
gentle
from holding babies
so many babies
dry from the long journeys
from far-away lands

Her apron soiled
from work
and work
more work
than we will know
than my hands can manage

her smile wide
for me
one of the babies
so many babies
some lost
gone
but she smiles
for the ones
here now

hands
wrinkled with time
from carrying loads
of bricks
of wash
of vegetables from the garden
pots and pans
babies
so many of them

born of her womb
her children's wombs
kids
grandkids
great-grandkids
some gone so soon

still strong hands continue
to toil
to build
to feed
to clothe

me
one of the babies
come late
the first
of the youngest
of the oldest
first-born girl
little strong one

but my hands are not hers
they are so soft
too soft for her world
her time
but her blood
it flows in me
and that comforts
makes me proud
makes me stronger
stronger than I believe I am