My hands
nails short, falsely proletarian in design,
age spots, brown circles of mortal sins
of sun worship and hormones,
I would respect these hands more
had they tilled the soil, planted crops to feed a nation,
or held a rifle to my shoulder to win freedom.
My hands
soft palmed and fragile
held an infant once
touched the cheek of my beloved
wiped away a tear:
fragile memories, whispers now,
so that red polish or French manicure
jarring vanity
against the bulging blue veins
highway sytems to nowhere
life line on my right palm
a route to places unknown until a future time.
Hands, fingers, thumbs, useful
hold, cup, grasp, pinch, caress
yet before the end of my life line
I wish to use these hand to mold, shape, chisel
a monument of granite
rather than trace the shadows of fantasy.
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