I can still see her thumbs
Dancing as they work
Her fingers rotating

In precise coordination
Those Loving fingers
Bathed in coconut oil
Helping each other,
Moving like a team
Of dedicated doctors
To fix the infant’s hasley

My agie’s hands
Twisting the corn bag strainer
To squeeze out the coconut milk
Leaving the kus kus dry
Then extracting the last drop
Of coconut oil
Making the chan-chee
Drier than crapaud bone

My agie’s fingernails
Harder than alligator’s scales
Sporting a permanent yellow
From the Cutex
Of the jusya weed
Those Kurmee hands
Massaged the rice field’s
Stubborn clay
Gently stroking Mother Earth
Opening her up for the beeya root
She, transplanting them
Giving life anew
Waiting for the autumn sun
To yield a bumper crop
My agie flexing her biceps
To make the grass-knife sing
Grabbing and cutting
Handfuls of solid 79
Cleaner than the red combine

My agie’s hands
Were sowing hands
Scattering dhaan
To feed the nation
And to fatten chickens
With her che-che call

My agie’s hands
Were caressing hands
Cuddling and pressing
The pink nipples
Of the bhuri cow
Making milking music
Chun-chai, chun-chai
In her black saucepan
Sweeter than the calypso man

My agie’s hands
Had barakat
Her capstan cup, never empty
Always glittering with shillings
Those hands washed
A million cups
Clapped roti enough
To feed the world’s army

My agie’s hands
Were small hands
Small hands like hers
Build big nations.