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Hands.


I can't really do very much with
My hands. These white apparitions
who seek out strong flesh on bone
who tap away at alphabets
who carry smoke to the soul
who grasp tightly the liquid of sorrow
Are not your hands, those who create and dance
and teach metal to sing.
The nails on them are slight,
only a little afterthought of pink
surrounded by red cuticles.
Sometimes they hurt
And sometimes they want to strangle,
punching fists in the air
As if boxing with my nemesis, the darkest
depths of my being.
And sometimes they want to cherish,
to caress and feel,
Absorbing energy; radiating heat
And bringing light
to the blackest recesses.
At the very least, they can
memorise the lines on your face
the stubble on your chin
the curve of your hip
and lusciously rapture
your tousled form.
Press your hands to mine, and
give me the strength I need;
because when I grip the apple
and bite into its flesh
I will need to hold on
as the world tumbles about me.


kelly_garner@unc.edu
Return to the beginning of poetry.
copyright kjg 1996