hands.
i so very rarely touch my self with my hands -
i don’t mean between the thighs.
i mean in the crook of my elbow
or the skin over my shin bone.
a fingertip dancing over
the forgotten parts of my soul’s
physical home.
i rarely slow down enough
to let my hands
get to know
the body that exists down below.
my hands — these incredible tools.
they express my thoughts
but they also pull knots
out of my hair
and wipe away tears that fall.
they hold the knife to slice the mushrooms
and bring the food to my mouth.
they flip the turn signal,
wave hello
turn up the radio.
they spark a lighter,
roll a joint,
pass it to the soul
you found your self
falling in lust with
three days in.
only to lose interest when he acted as though he had no sin.
they turn the pages
of the stories
that tell of our glory,
of our pain,
our loss,
our anguish,
our empathy,
our humanity.
to think — i once only thought of my hands as a place to put a ring.
