Poems

When I was little, people used to tell me that I had big hands, you should play basketball.
They would tell me so often in fact
That one day, I started to believe them
Until I asked my construction worker mom:
“Mommy, mommy, mommy could I be a basketball player?”
To which she said “No way!”

I don’t remember the reason she gave me
And I would have been upset
But there were far too many GI Joe’s to play with;
Too many homework assignments to write;
Too many girls to wave at;
Too many years to grow;

We used to have this game, my mom and I,
About holding hands,
Cause when I was little, we held hands everywhere.
And every time, either she or I would whisper To the other,
A great big number; pretending that we were keeping track of
How many times we had held hands;
We were sure that this time had to be: 9,406,833

You see, Hands learn more than minds do.
Hands learn how to hold other hands;
How to grip pencils and mold pottery;
How to shoot marbles and throw a baseball;
And grip the handles of a bicycle;
How to touch old people and hold babies.

Hands molded in prayer resembles a steeple.
They are the maps and compasses with which
We navigate our way through life.
Some people read palms to tell your future,
But I read hands to tell your past.
Each scar marks a story worth telling.
Each calloused palm, each cracked knuckle,
Is a thrown punch, or years worked in a factory.

Now I see Ukrainian hands
Striking against Iron fists.
Each pounding against each other like war drums.
Each country sees their fist as warriors,
And others as enemies.
Even though their fists alone are only hands.

But this is not about politics!
No,
Hands are not politics;
No,
This is a poem about hands,
And fingers
Fingers placed together like a beautiful steeple
In prayer.

Once when I was older I grabbed my mom hand so that
Our fingers interlocked perfectly
But she changed position saying
“No, that hand hold is for your girlfriend!”

Kids high five and chunk the deuce but grown ups,
We learn to shake hands.
Because you need a firm handshake,
But don’t hold on too tight;
But don’t let go too soon;
But don’t hold on too long;
But hands should not be held to social construction
When did it become so complicated?
I always thought it was simple.

One day my mom looked at my hands
As if seeing them for the first time;
And with laughter behind her eyelids.

And with all the seriousness of a women of humor could muster,
She said, “You know, you got big hand;
You coulda learn to play basketball.”