Hands
Sarah Kay
People used to tell me that I had beautiful hands.
They told me so often, in fact, that one day I started to
believe them; I started listening. Until I asked my
photographer father,
Hey Daddy, could I be a hand model?
To which Dad laughed and said,
No way.
I don’t remember the reason he gave,
and it probably didn’t matter anyway.
I would have been upset, but there were
far too many crayons to grab, too many
stuffed animals to hold, too many ponytails to tie,
too many homework assignments to write,
too many boys to wave at, too many years to grow.
We used to have a game, my dad and I, about holding hands.
We held hands everywhere. In the car, on the bus, on the street,
at a movie. And every time, either he or I would whisper a
great big number to the other, pretending that we were
keeping track of how many times we had held hands,
that we were sure this one had to be eight-million,
two-thousand, seven-hundred and fifty-three.
Hands learn. More than minds do.
Hands learn how to hold other hands.
How to grip pencils and mold poetry.
How to memorize computer keys
and telephone buttons in the dark.
How to tickle pianos and grip bicycle handles.
How to dribble a basketball and how to peel apart
pages of Sunday comics that somehow always seem to stick together.
They learn how to touch old people and how to hold babies.
I love hands like I love people. They are the maps and
compasses with which we navigate our way through life,
feeling our way over mountains passed and valleys crossed;
they are our histories.
Some people read palms to tell your future,
I read hands to tell your past.
Each scar marks a story worth telling. Each callused palm,
each cracked knuckle, is a broken bottle, a missed punch,
a rusty nail, years in a factory.
Now, I watch Middle Eastern hands
clenched in Middle Eastern fists.
Pounding against each other like war drums,
each country sees their fists as warriors,
and others as enemies, even if fists alone are only hands.
But this is not a poem about politics; hands are not about politics.
This is a poem about love.
And fingers. Fingers interlocked like a beautiful accordion of flesh
or a zipper of prayer. One time, I grabbed my dad’s hand
so that our fingers interlocked perfectly, but he changed his
position, saying,
No, that hand-hold is for your mom.
Kids high five, sounds of hand-to-hand combat
instead mark camaraderie and teamwork.
Now, grown up, we learn to shake hands.
You need a firm handshake, but not too tight, don’t be limp now,
don’t drop too soon, but for God’s sake don’t hold on too long…
but…hands are not about politics?
When did it become so complicated?
I always thought it simple.
The other day, my dad looked at my hands, as if seeing them
for the first time. And with laughter behind his eyelids,
with all the seriousness a man of his humor could muster, he said,
You’ve got nice hands. You could’ve been a hand model.
And before the laughter can escape me,
I shake my head at him,
and squeeze his hand.
Eight-million, two-thousand, seven-hundred and fifty-four.
