Every once in awhile, in the midst of living, my hands catch my eye.
Their busyness, their stillness, sometimes simultaneous effects,
as when I'm caught in thought,
as when I press a temporary tattoo against my skin,
as when one hand holds the other.
At times they remind me of my mother's, and the veins that rise out of my skin are mountains of __________. rivers of __________.
In other moments, my hands remind me of an old lover's,
in the shape,
in the way they fold,
in the empty space between my fingertips.
I think perhaps my hands are better at holding the past than the present.
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