Hands (plural),
my hands (also plural);
there’s two of them:
extensions from the same
one trunk,
but also not hands,
also skin, hair
and bones I can’t see,
and blood I infer
from the swollen veins
of a languid summer tryst.
Hands but also tools
to tie, press, grasp, hold;
moving tools; climbing
tools;
tools to turn things over
and make sense.
Hands but symbols also:
semaphores for the deaf,
a thumbs up and a clap.
Instruments for
appreciative sounds,
together,
for anger slapped down
on a hard wood table.
Hands but also roots
for digging into the world;
lines of communication
for my sense, perception.
Digits on which I count
1, 2, 3, 4…
Palms on which I rest the
coconut.
Hands but also evidence
of time:
of ageing, eating, that
last cigarette
lingers on the fingers
Hands but also biographies:
the one broken page book of
our lives;
an afterthought of DNA.
We say hands
but know the language fails
us
and leaves us wanting
for imprecision,
so when I take your hand in
mine
know, it makes so much more
than simply hands.
Simon Leake
 | |||
| Hands by Harry Wareham |