Hands
Everything lies in the power of hands.
Gestures of comfort, of anger or pain.
When telling fortunes the lines and fingers are travelled,
Like a twisting river.
And my fate is held in my hands.
I skin away the palms as easy as an apple’s.
I wring my hands and scatter my fingers when the fuckers have broken off.
The empty palms are now free, gross but redefined.
Round cups at the end of my wrists,
That hold nothing.
I am free from my thumb,
Thumbs up and thumbs down,
Lying about what I think from across the room.
From making fists and clenching tightly
To the slipping dreams,
Days, bills,
And moments of myself.
I am free from sharing.
From pointing out the obvious,
And pushing someone’s buttons
Or the nervous habit I have of twirling my hair.
I am free from anger
Well, I miss the middle finger,
As I walk down sidewalks and pharmacies,
With my bird flying high
At the catcalls,
The sly comments,
and the toxin of words.
I am free from love.
The ring finger is gladly torn away.
No mothers to question why it is bare.
No fathers to wonder about your weight,
maybe that’s why you’re still single (but I’ll still always love my little girl).
No friends to drag you out in painful Payless heels and
your girdle and spanx and force conversation as he looks you up and down.
I am free from manners,
when drinking tea having to lift my pinky high
And the association it brings of being a lady.
I like to fuck multiple guys on Tuesdays and Saturdays at the pub.
It’s dark in there so no one cares about my raised pinky,
My opinions or my even my face.
