Possibility of Hands
I hold your hand
palm up, lace your
fingers with mine,
stretch the palm wide
so my thumbs can press
tight muscles into pools
of softened warmth;
open, your hand could
slap a child’s face,
brush away crumbs,
press the sternum for
resuscitation,
shape the sides of
a porcelain bowl
while fingers curved could
pull a trigger—crosshair
parting the bridge between
eyes, press rounded keys to
blow jazz through
brass, suture severed
flesh with catgut and needle—
within skin
no purpose but life.
