Hands that curl and uncurl around soda cans.
Hands that hold onto bus poles, hold on like
they’re clawing, clambering, drowning,
To let slip is to let go.
are tiny, and fit into a palm
and curl around a finger
for security, for safety, for
that lay twitching on lonely table tops
twitch to the beat of loneliness, to drawn out breaths
to the stranger who never comes.
that salute to power, hands
that pluck out flowers, hands
that dig graves for the brave, the old, the forgotten,
and the Cherished.
that follow like a breeze around her waistline
as he steers her around the crowd, steers her to
that flourish pens, pencils, praises,
that she gently raises
to the Heavens every night in prayer.
that pray for peace, for patience, for her