Selected Poems
Your hands
Remember how you hated your hands, the way they looked.
How you hid your hands up long sleeves
or wore gloves, held your hands under the table.
You never spoke with your hands
ever conscious of each discoloration, every scar
You would clench fists to cover up your nails.
I found your hands fascinating. Knuckles swollen, storied of survival.
Bit nails split, spit out a history of places you had been
A blued road map, hard crisscross of experience.
I held your hands, once, studied them while you spoke
with broken soft beauty and magnificent regal strong.
Never told you, your hands were gorgeous, wanting more.
Figured you never could believe me, think less of me a liar.
You were never told how exceptional you and your hands were.
Now I wish, against stones of hope, somehow still, you knew.
