I’ve become enamored with my hands.

They are soft

And muscular; I break them and they come back,

Only slower. I watch them

Correct student papers, and they’re as assured

As ever, more assured than

My soul even, who still ponders,

Fears for its existence.

When I fret about something

My hands gaze at me

Like two loving dogs.

Then they go about the business

Of doing.

My hands know about the brain,

But they only

Nod to it, then do what it orders them to do.

Like soldiers, they don’t question,

Though they have their own feelings

Their own opinions.

My hands are bronze— Argentinian

Like Mother

Who taught me only last week

The phrase miedo a nada, fear nothing,

As she and I strolled

The beachside park

Along the yachts of Marina Del Rey.

It wasn’t advice

Only a way to punctuate,

Miedo a nada, fear nothing,

A point I was stressing about difficult family,

coworkers, students, friends…

She didn’t say it, miedo a nada,

Like a mother would,

But more as an old confidante,

She didn’t say it

In her hurried breath, as she might have

When I, a rag and a bottle

Of Pledge in my young hands,

Watched her, propel someone else’s

Soaked mop, empty their vacuum,

So many years, turning her face

To cough up the dust.

Miedo a nada

The two of us just

Strolling, strolling

Miedo a nada

Along those beautiful yachts,

Mahogany handrails, crisp white

Sails, one perhaps even owned

By people she worked for.

Miedo a nada

Then, we walked in quiet

Side by side

Long enough

For me to realize Mother and I

Miedo a nada

Were walking side by side.

BIO

Alejandro Escudé is the author two chapbooks, "Where Else But Here" and “Unknown

Physics,” both published by March Street Press. His poems have appeared in Poet Lore,

Rattle, and Phoebe. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro is an English teacher and lives

in Los Angeles with his wife and two kids.