These Hands

 

These American hands take my coffee on a walk

and twirl my hair when I’m thinking too much.

These hands used to let me disappear
into childhood doodles.
Shy, shy girl with a wild
imagination.

Calloused, monkey bar hands.
Hands that cupped a baby bird while it
gasped for water.

Hands like my father's --
taming those garage monsters--
the hissing, silver wheel,
the hammer,
the ripe flurry of wood chips.

Instead, I carve
more softly--
bending music like
water, chasing color
and words like sunsets.

Because hands like ours
don't want the wine bottle
but the whole vineyard.

You quiet my hands,

you quiet my soul.

~

Memories:
Thumb knuckles --  a kiss.
Wrist -- a burn mark.

Finger -- a callous like an old friend.
Palms- Easter. Thinking about crucifixion.

Sometimes, these hands extend in prayer,

and feel the hot, large tears of a child.

These hands offer a cold rootbeer

to a man saving up for October rent.

~

I remember walking in Paris once,
and thinking about how the bridges hold the Siene.

And how I must hold the people
I love with open hands.
How I must learn to be still
like the bridges, so the river may pass
through and return 

while it spins

and glides its golden trail.