by guest poet Ruth Kamm
Hands are soft and calloused and the whole spectrum of ignorance and experience.
Hands are clammy, moist, and slippery; altogether nervous things.
Hands are dry, cracked, and firm, utterly smiling and sure.
Hand are cradles for the lines of a downturned face or the curve of a hesitant neck.
Hands are the weapons of lovers and the slaves of killers.
Hands are fickle, fastidious things; in one moment the are caress and stroke and skin, and in
another they are fist and claw and bone.
Hand are makers of music, writers of novels, and wielders of blood-stained swords.
Hands are the physical extensions of a formless soul, curious and free.
Hands are the strong, seamless bits of flesh and bone that tremble when a father holds his
crooning child in perpetual surprise of its first breaths.
Hands are the molders of clay and dirt and brick and dust.
Hands are limp, lifeless limbs that hang like dead lilies or straight, sure scepters that shoot into
the sky with sanguine triumph.
Hand are the difference between a woman’s cold, hard glance and soft, knowing gaze.
Hands are prim sheets of paper resting on one another in amiable acknowledgement of their
Hands are quaking birds that flap wildly at the slightest disturbance.
Hands are storytellers and story makers.
Hands are the grim collectors of memory, soiled with tears, blood, sweat, grit and disease.
Hands are the resilient companions of a mother who has reared one child too many; They are the
abiding friends of a man who has built his life out of dust.
Hands are the patient tools of a carpenter who smears mud over the eyes of a blind man.
They are the dirty bloodstained servants of a king pegged to a tree, raised in perpetual worship
Hand are potential and anticipation and waiting.