My Hands

My hands lie in my lap as if breathing.

They might be dreaming of extending my arms in different directions.

If the index finger of one scratches the palm of the other,

I can feel the way it changes the balance of my body,

Its position within a room.

In the future my hands might search for car keys misplaced on a desk,

Clutch a pear, break a lamp.

They might clap for no reason.

They might clap for no reason.

My hands might almost form a circle,

The space inside enclosed but open

So that you can enter.

They might be both a boundary and an invitation.

They might push everything away

Or push me up from the ground

Where, having fallen, I lie for some time unseen.

 

Sometimes my hands wash my face,

Sometimes they cup the rain

For others to drink

Although they’re porous, water escapes between the fingers.

My hands move upward to praise,

Downward to please,

And sometimes having no direction

They flop in the wind like bedraggled flags.

My hands grab space like a mouth gulps air.

I use them to reach for everything

My mind can conceive, hoping to catch as well what it cannot.

My hands won’t hold anything for very long

Because they’re not steady.  They shake,

And shaking, remind me how it is we grasp at love.

 

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