Hands

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

"A Woman's Arm," by Adolph Tidemand, Google Art Project
from Wikimedia