Grandma's Hands

These are the hands

always holding each other.

Folding and unfolding

in each other's palm --

a white hair, a story, or a twig.

Like the life lines

twined and untwined --

Always a secret

written between

the right palm and the left palm.

These are the hands

That said, How cold !

And cupped my hands

when I shivered.

These hands are made of bones

attached to the skins --

filled with dishes, wrinkles, and other hands.

These hands

scrub the floor, wipe our tears, and hold a prayer.

Time and time

again the hands say,

I will let you go.

And then remind me,

Don't turn your head.

Each time

the hands hold me closer

by letting go.

These are the hands

visible and invisible

which connect

a distance

between a small room on Long Island and a grave

in Hong Kong.

These hands reach out from

the breeze

to touch me

without asking.

These hands reached out from

a bed

in an I.C.U.

and said, Go home, you are hungry.

I asked the hands,

Don't you want me to stay with you ?

The hands were in silence.

One evening, I heard the hands

murmur in a dream

Ah mo ! Ah mo !

I asked,

What is it ?

My mother said,

This is how your grandma calls her mother.

1988, Long Island, New York