I used to love my hands.
They used to be perfect.
But now I see them,
The scars of eczema,
The chap of winters long since passed,
The knuckles too tan and rounded,
Proof of cracking and abuse,
Knuckles with too much tissue to protect me,
Veins running through the backs--
But not enough to stand--
Only enough to make me blue
Like the ink with which I jot my notes
On my hand.
Nails of uneven length,
Fine, blonde, mid-digital hairs
The skin there too pale,
Attempts at calluses on the fingertips
From a guitar I carried into heaven once...
The palms with long life-lines and one love path,
Blotched white and pink in fluorescent lights,
Burn blisters from friction on the sides of the indices,
The old callus on the one thumb,
A new abrasion on the other...
They fit too large on my wrists,
Too large.
The one is hot. But I don't mind,
For something just today
Has made it beautiful again.

10/02/2001

Posted on 10/02/2001
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