You don't know where they've been,
those aging hands, one reposing on back of other;
eyes resting on the poet who reads from the stage.
The hands are elegant now, like antique china.
Cords fan from wrist to knuckle, pale blue veins,
just visible. Long thin fingers tipped with oval pearls.
Memories hide in blood and bone, memories
of willing capture by eager young-man hands. Traces
remain of how it was to grip a writhing back, to stroke
outpourings of joy from tongueless mouth.
Their cells retain the roundness of downy infant heads,
of tiny backs caressed to warm cradles of sleep.
Of half-grown shoulders patted in praise or comfort.
The hands recall, in time becoming futile
shields for her face, while other punishing hands
rained on their terrified backs.
They remember wringing.
They hold within, recollections
of clinging to necks of bottles, of raking
through purses in search of the price of more.
They remember praying.
They remember the power of stronger hands
dragging them back to life.
Now these hands grip bike handles like cudgels
as she sails into battle with city traffic. Now she conceives,
generates infant ideas as hands spread on a keyboard,
give birth to words. They reach out, touch new hemispheres.
The reading poet smiles and finishes. In pleasure,
antique hands strike together again and again,
then fold in her lap. She glances down at oval pink pearls.
