There are times I am ashamed
of my soft, smooth hands.
They bear little resemblance
to those of my father.
Veins protrude and snake
around his joints and knuckles
like rivers lining the earth.
I was not born in the land
of my forbearers- I was born
a continent and ocean away.
My hands have not known
the toil of cutting trees
from hot jungle, or carried
cords of wood at daybreak
back into town as doors
and eyes opened for the day.
His life is his life. My life
is my own. Ancient soil
longs to cake my nails.
Skin aches to cool itself
in tranquil waters of cenotes
found far from town.
My hands have labored
in a way they never would
had they been given to
the land from which my blood
flows, from where ancient
memories haunt me in sleep-
places I have never known.
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