Blackbird

Sometimes they have matchsticks for fingers, my poor hands.
Blood-red at the tips from nervous biting.
Lately they have become crepe-skinned, though I’m not that old.
Should they look this old?

Over the course of existing in a world
Where I have found the women's half of the sky
A heavy thing to hoist
I have used my hands to reject and to embrace their duties.

Right now I am entranced with
Berry-bright, glossy lozenges on my fingertips.
Other times I look at painted nails with disdain, pity.
Who would want to be so far from the Earth?
Who would be so vain?
Why are you so unlike the people you came from?
Your scientist father. Your warrior mother. 
But today, they delight me. Their shine.

I had been suspicious of my hands for a long time.
Unlike those I love, no matter which way I wear them.
Well, unlike my mother's.

It took a long time to realize
The Big Bad Thing hadn’t come for me.
The big bad thing that ate through my mother's still-young joints
That would have grounded her if we hadn’t lived when we did.

It swooped down briefly to consider me.
Lowered my arms, and lowered me from my toes
But then the big bad thing flew on.
Leaving only a little scar.

It did not happen to me.
Even though I am my mother’s daughter.
And it happened to her.

By now, if it comes, it’s due.

I can start taking the pins
Out of to-dos.
I can plan things
That involve my knees
My shoulders
My feet.

The skies have long been free of terrors.
And my hands have always been strong.