Her Wrinkled Hands

Fingers, warm but dried 

Crepe paper hands

Flaky

White-powdered

Blemished

Old as limestone. 

                             But 

                   Look 

       Closer

Until you lose yourself 

Within her childish… 

Crests of infinite wrinkles, full 

of long-lived wisdom.

No. Not wisdom: 

Laughter 

From Mexican comedies 

Like Cantinflas’ life philosophies

                   O como dijo ese gran poeta “Chicaspear”:

                                     Te ví o no te ví,

                                 That is the question

At which only she laughs 

Through toothless gums 

And sweat droplets on her nose 

Arms standing in mid-air, 

With bumps 

With veins, travelling 

                  Under her skin

Green, blue 

And purple too, 

           With hair

           Thin hair

Invisible from a distance, 

           With moles 

           And pores 

Scattered      like      spawn,

Swimming inside her flesh 

All the way up to… 

Her fingers, wrapped around 

A wooden spoon 

Slow stirs 

Gentle stirs 

Heart-woven stirs 

Mixing well the… 

‘Arroz con leche’, sweet, hot and tender.

       Her hands

Full of stories and treasures

       Her hands 

When I see them dance 

Round the steaming rice 

Her left hand

Twisted, hugging the handle of the shining pan,

                                                             Her right hand 

like a dancer twirling a ribbon in rhythmic gymnastics

Moving relentlessly

Avoiding the forming of milk skin.

Her hand 

Her hands 

Her wrinkled hands 

Revived by the smells 

Of milk and rice.