Care

I have watched many hands,

measuring their temperature and temperament.

From speckled red in cold to risen veins

in heat, hands say so much

about a man. Hands that carry

items from port to port.

Hands that are busy.

Hands that don’t know what to do.

I have given myself over to many

hands; some for years, others

for just one night.

I have seen hands swiftly move

from the sacred to the profane,

from scorn to kindness and back

again. The division of hands can be

as different as left from right.

When I watched him hold

his hands to his chest

as if protecting something heavy inside,

I knew that he would handle me

with care. The care with which the bruised

consider the body of another.

As if handling a package

that has endured

many travails. As if opening

a box full of shards.