I don't recognize these hands
blemished and wrinkled.
These hands
were attached to my body
for twenty years
while I slept.
I awake to find them asking,
why I am reluctant to claim them.
They ask
why I pretend to be
a patient with temporary amnesia.
I don't recognize these hands,
they washed dishes,
changed soiled diapers,
turned pages,
and touched fevered foreheads.
Mom had beautiful hands,
even when she passed away
at eighty years old.
She rubbed them
with cream from Switzerland
after she finished
chores,
baked and cooked,
hung up her day,
like a coat on a hanger.
Mom caressed her hands,
as faint luxurious scent
floating in the air.
Mom had beautiful hands,
not mine.
