Theory of Hands
I have written all my life
in the palms of hands.
And those that intentionally closed
to suffocate
my well thought-out words,
not one has come generously,
confident, with a firm repose.
The intentions of fingers:
To write.
To call.
Are like misguided charity,
a philanthropist
who never sat with a beggar.
I have left behind
a poem for each knuckle
to soften
the jagged bones of a fist.
Yet they were used to oppress
the sissy-poet who have lived on less
to write about afterbirth,
a bruised eye, a comrade,
dejected times.
I have learned to replace hands
with a forearm
or a wrist instead,
to pull me up
when my knees gave out,
or when my heart caved in.
If there is anything
I memorized
it would be the contours
of each hand
that pried loose
my hold.
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