Hands

I.
I like hands;
their ability to grasp,
build, form, create.
They are machines
built with delicacy
and strength.
They represent so much about
what separates us
from other species--
their power.
We take for granted these
necessary tools,
practicing in grace and beauty,
commanding attention with their
expressive nature.
And yet,
one tiny movement and
their destructive
abilities are released.

II.
I like to watch her
wash her hands;
massaging the soap in,
erasing any last traces of
chemicals or
germs.
I marvel at the
lack of discomfort she
seems to find in
never removing her ring
to do the dishes.
The ring that confuses
so many people and only makes
me laugh as they argue a
point they know nothing of,
with that ring as their
only proof.

III.
Drawing my right hand,
I build an idea out
of a few curved fingers
and a gentle reaching;
I turn gentle into
desperate and wait
to find the rest,
exploring parts of me I
hadn't yet acknowledged.

IV.
Reaching over
I grasp her hand in mine;
we cup them palm-to-palm.
stabilizing our shaky
knees and ankles.
holding each other up.

V.
O;
if only imagining were enough.