Describe Your Parents Hands

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Uvila Ibarra

describe your parents hands:

I don't remember my dad's hands

I only remember the callous skin from picking at trees and vines for hours 

and then going to some place with a roof for a meal

My mom's hands used to cook those meals 

until he said no tomatoes. 

No cheese. 

No salt. 

No greens.

No spices.

No flavor.

No plate.

Eventually he didn't want anything 

but 

a napkin to wipe the words off his mouth before it shut for good.

Mama's hands are pink and have gotten pudgy over the years. 

All of her had gotten pudgy. 

There was no other place for food to go 

but jumping the wall of her mouth 

where there were teeth 

and crossed the bile in her stomach 

                         but never getting to the other side.

For more of Ibarra’s work, read their poem The Bean from Behemoth Magazine’s debut issue.