I've long admired the hands of those girls,
the soft ones, with pearled necks
whose bird hands
flutter importantly, in a halo of words.
My hands are not my voice.
They do not shift effortlessly through discourse.
They do not emote or beguile.
There is no echo chamber wending through their veins.
No stretch of your imagination will engage them.
They'll tell no secret.
My hands are not genteel,delicate flower.
They offer no communal blessing, nor wasted gesture.
They are not angry surgeons bent on castrating man.
They will hold no such spirit captive.
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