While Looking At My Hands

Always there has been this reach
And its limits
Ringless, jointed, feather-fingered--a hand
Not meant to be kissed or touched
Instead it touches
Fingers curled
Salve for the broken, sweet-teared, salted cheek
A living bandage
Folded neatly, unfolded, folded again


And it appears too often patient
One can see the patience
Filed nails, smooth, imperfect
A cared-for invitation
Patted and plumped, dusted and swept
Surely, a god creates a shape as this
Meant to be cherished---ahh
Man should love not worship
A child often does
But, even more than this
This hand may know
The significance of being made for real
And not for show

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While Looking At My Hands stephanie pope, mythopoetry.com

from Reaching For The Felt Sense: The Handedness of The Handless Maiden