My ama insists that she and I
have exactly the same palm lines.
Once she lifted her wrinkled hand
and placed it gently next to mine,
tracing the undeniable proof
that our fates are intertwined.
My ama’s life at my age:
tiny house on tiny island,
loveless marriage, two-year-old in tow.
In another twenty-ish years,
a newfound cramped apartment hell
in the city that never sleeps.
Sometimes I think my hands are too soft—
never raw from scrubbing dishes.
I eat desserts the size of my palm
and that I can’t possibly deserve—
not when I’ve never knitted scraps to sell,
not when I’ve never had to hit back.
