mother, i have
inherited
your hands.

each wrinkle speaks
of decades older than
your age;
no amount of
hand-creams
and vaseline
can conceal these markers
of laboring love.

each crack in your skin
holds stories of
a hundred thousand days
feeding a hundred souls.

your brothers call you
durga,
fierce one,
protectress —
they are your sons
and i, your only daughter.

your hands know only
to love,
to labor,
to devote,
to attend.

mother, i have
inherited
your hands
and their full weight.