My hands shake,
they don’t want to tweeze that
long black hair growing from my chin
nor do they like tightening
the screw in my glasses.
Every surgery I have, the shaking
grows worse, grows more violent
and I’m unable to do those
small things that make life
whole
like eat a meal with a fork.
My mother’s hands shook a lot
and I hated it,
hated her touch,
especially after a night out drinking
with my father.
My grandmother’s hands shook too.
I never minded a bit
as her hands
always shook with love.
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