I Stare

264 Replies

at my hands,
consider meandering
veins and fissures
etched into palms by time.

These cannot be my hands.

The hands
that flew the Millenium Falcon
in a daring attack on my
sister’s Barbie Dream
House, made

a diving catch
in the fourth inning,
struck out in the ninth,
chased away victory,

won a two-punch bout,
a black eye my best friend
blamed on a basketball
to save the rest of his face.

The hands
that wrestled steel strings
pulled taut over rosewood,
strained to coax a reluctant
‘Am I Evil’ out of cheap frets,

wrote a speech to mark
the advent of tomorrow.
Student and parent wept
while the principal checked
his watch, celebrated the end

of a lifetime of temperance
by raising the first beer
to accomplice lips,

belied false bravado as
they quivered at the
timid first touch of
a woman’s breast.

The hands
that, in moments
of unflinching betrayal,
wielded blades and pills
against their host,

wore a ring with a vow
of forever only to
remove that promise
some years later, stroked

a cat’s cheek while
wicking away tears
in the vet’s office
as life made its
final exit.

The hands
that now behold
beauty, embrace love
and the universe held
in their midst.

I stare.
These cannot be
my hands.

264 thoughts on “I Stare”

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