Hands
You clench fists,
gripping us tightly,
dry and cracked,
in need of tlc.
You fling us around
wildly as you speak.
We spend days nurturing others,
nights making meals,
and you have never even dressed us in pretty jewels
(well maybe that occasional ring).
Our tips press letters and numbers
that keep us connected with loved ones
in places far away.
Our enamel is never polished bright;
you tried it once
and said it felt as though it were numb.
We feel the pins and needles
when the weight of you
becomes too much to bear
and you fall asleep
with us tucked under your head.
We remember that time in traffic
when you white-knuckled
the steering wheel
for fear the other cars were too close.
We feel the aches as you hold tight the brush,
struggling to get the knots
out of your daughter’s hair.
You rarely thank us.
You hide us in pockets
standing on sidewalks.
We could have been used
to create masterpieces of music,
years of guitar and piano lessons
stretching us,
but you chose an alternative,
giving the blood that flows to our ends
to others.
We hold scars
from moments
that are too painful to speak of,
and we've never once complained.
© Suzanne Saxon, 2014
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| "A Woman's Arm," by Adolph Tidemand, Google Art Project from Wikimedia |
