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.
Thumb knuckles -- a kiss.
Wrist -- a burn mark.
Finger -- a callous like an old friend.
Palms- Easter. Thinking about crucifixion.
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
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
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.
