To My Hands

To My Hands
by Jill C.

Why did you never grow--
but why are you so old--
skin already shriveled and cuticles dry
nails to brittle to grow out and get a french manicure
freckles that come and grow
then fade
with the callouses
from raking the lawn once in a blue moon

Why is the soft crescent shadow only on my thumb nails--
is the one most often crushed by a clumsy hammer
really the only one deserving of health and beauty--

Why is 'pretty hands' such a hard thing for me to grasp--
the photographer repeats it again
no, pretty hands, not alien, not ugly
but my wrist simply does not bend that way

Why are you so cold--
so pale
so mottled
lacking all the comfort a normal human should give
a cold hand on a warm shoulder
it beckons death
not love

Why are you so weak--
that's not heavy to anyone else
they can give a pinch of pain
their touch can bring pleasure

Of all the things you could do well
why did you choose holding a pen--
How did the perfect first grade grip get ingrained in muscle memory
when so much else was passed by--
I could have been a mechanic
a boxer
anything
but I am a writer

My weak little hands have made me
a writer
my power comes from the page
and strength is in my speech
physical beauty is nothing compared to words

But in poetry
even cold death can be
beautiful
and I an be giant
holding the world
in my pen
that I have
tightly clutched
in my hand