white knuckles, whitecaps, waves breaking

mood rings unwavering blue, useless

staring at the sea for the possibility of a feeling

blue: only, always

fistful of gum wrappers, haikus like spearmint suicide notes

unpainted fingernails

atlantic gales peel the fish scales from her hands

blood a tragic blue, blood like ink

elegies in the creases of her palms

wake invitations in the eddies of her fingertips

even the tide laments

stanzas buried in the soft sands of amnesia

a wordless blue tombstone, a sad song

One day I was helping a young girl with her piano practice and she complained that her hands were just too small. "It's okay," I reassured her. "Look, my hands are small, too." And I held out one little mitt. Her eyes went wide and she said, "wow." I mean, really - I just wanted her to understand that you can play piano with little hands, not gawk at them like I was part of some circus sideshow. But it's true, my hands are tiny. So tiny that my family likes to point them out to people who take one look at them and say, "aww ..."

Yes. Aww. At my hands. The hands that stopped growing three years ago. My sisters and mother take great joy in the fact that, although I'm taller than all of them, my hands are smaller and pudgier than theirs.

There is, however, something you should be aware of. These stubby fingers are where my invincibility lies. I have nearly broken my hand just trying to please my old violin teachers and reach as far as I could up the fingerboard, but at least my fingers can dance and make music even when they have trouble spanning one octave. Every word I type owes its thanks to their deftness and speed. I can draw pictures and write pretty letters that make people smile. I can drive a car!

I am also something of an expert when it comes to pulling weeds.

My ugly little hands can wipe away tears and smooth ruffled hair, guide even littler hands curled in fists around pencils, hold one end of a skipping rope, play slaps (that's an important one), create stories, and do lots of other useful things.

Let me just make myself clear.

Do not underestimate my small hands. Though I've had no occasion to try it as of yet, I'm sure they are also mighty useful when it comes to delivering a hefty slap.

I imagine that

if I touched it

it would be softer

than the smoothest silk

or velvet

I have ever known

and if it touched

my cheek

it would be

more gentle

than a warm breeze

or the sun’s rays

caressing my cheek.

I imagine that

if I held it in my own

it would be softer

than a newborn’s foot

and sweeter than

a first kiss.

I steal covetous glances

and imagine

caresses that

will never be

and I feel the

forlorn absence of

something

I will never know.

I imagine that

if I pressed it

to my heart

you would feel

my thoughts

and laugh

or run.

At first, a graze

Your pinkie against mine

In an elevator

As we walked to the 1 train

It felt electric but unsteady

What was it supposed to mean?

The next day you took my chin

Into your hand

Your skin was warm, but rough

You asked how I could be this pretty

Fingers wrapped around my jaw bone

Just a bit too tightly

I think I was flattered

But your stardom cast a shadow

Isn't pretty a word for little girls?

I was 23 and you were 35

My chest was tight that first night

You invited me upstairs

You'd been feeling stressed

And the director told me to help

For the show, she said

Everyone wanted to please him

So I should want that too

Your hands gripped me above the waist

Thumbs digging into my hip bones

As you breathed heavily into my ear

"I've wanted to do this for so long"

It'd only been nine days

Your hands worked their way up

Ravenous, searching for something

I wasn't sure that I could give

They seemed so large in that moment

As if they could press against my face

Smother me and make me disappear

I would've welcomed it

We met on the stage of your show

You a film actor turned Broadway star

Me an intern wanting to use my own hands

To create something new

But I keep them in my pockets now

And clench them into fists

The keys on your keyboard that click with each stroke...

That piano you oftentimes graze...

Your steering wheel, trousers, and cellular phone...

The side of your curious face...

Your fork, your spoon, your cup of tea,

Your papers and pencils and such...

Oh, but if I could be one of those things

Your hands ever gracefully touch...

I picture them. The way they handled, so delicately, those tiny figurines you spent hours meditatively painting. You could have decorated your entire house with them, have a soldier salute you as you made your morning cup of tea.

They handed cup after cup of tea. How many times has your index, long and strong, flicked at that switch to make the water boil, your wrist turned and stretched towards your ceramic pots, your thumb looped around the milk as you poured in just the right amount—always the right amount.

I can see them holding the gift you’d painted for your grandparents, I can see them shy, bashful, drumming against the table. I can see them pinch salt and sumac delicately, sprinkling in pomegranate seeds and pickling onion.

Those hands could do anything. Strong, with fingers that gripped and kissed the climbing wall like spiders, the rest of you leaping up to follow. They screwed and fixed and scrubbed bicycles, they‘d DIY you out of house and home, those hands would, they’d make computers and skateboards and tables any day of the week.

They were clever, too, could poke and pry and heal. They were the ones to put dislocated jaws back into place, to calm and soothe the sick, to warm skin and heal joints and bare piss and spit and shit and pus and blood, and they wiped away tears, put life back into bodies, and held people in their very last moments.

They were whole hands, giving hands, and, once upon a time, they were my hands.

she danced

hand-shadows

on the ceiling

cracks became electricity sparkling from her fingertips, where

nails flashed shadow-dark

and fingers joined and separated again

the angles made everything different, one moment

a wrinkled crone hand

grasping at the next

moment's delicate

masterpiece

in the shadows of her hands, she held

everything

hands are underrated

mine punch through lines

of poetry like lime

cuts through the margarita

you use to burn time

hands are underrated

they punch through walls

you later said you laughed

in his face for doing that

I wonder how it feels

to be on the receiving end

of that kind of anger

hands are underrated

they tap on keyboards

that will share

our darkest secrets

sometimes I let them

slip through my fingers

I want to sit with you in silence no matter how long it takes for you to feel a little bit more like yourself, to be comfortable in telling me what is hurting you. Allow me to hold your soft hands, walking together until your feet become waters of the sea, wading through your emotions.

I am the hurt, the lost, the loved and the unloved, the empathy and the weary. I want to be your rain when you want to dance, I want to be your paper and pen when you want to write - because I know the feelings of being misunderstood and left behind.