Becoming Hands

I play violin outside because I like to feel grass under my feet

like the music I’m making will fall to the ground and plant itself there

the way nature falls silent to hear what Vivaldi thinks of it.

My arm unfolds in the air and it’s like my bow is an extension

of my body – a bone jutting from an open wound and

I become my hands.

I climb up onto a ladder in the bookstore and

my neck extends like a thumb and I think maybe my face

is an unreadable palm because I don’t have lines yet and

I’m terrified a fortuneteller in a smoke-filled tent will tell me

I’ve known nothing.

I write in my room because I like to feel the walls around me

like the stories I’m telling will drop to the carpet and stain it

the color of the day he left without saying goodbye

and I will paint those walls the red of unforgiveness.

I want to shed my limbs and be the kind of hand

that holds a flower and doesn’t crush it to a pulp.

I play violin outside because I think music notes could be fertilizer

and one day when I’m in a coffin in the ground I want my hands

to be the last part of me to decompose.

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4 thoughts on “Becoming Hands

  1. Spectacular imagery, as well as the composition over all. I really liked this, a very unique perspective. The opening lines grabbed my attention, and you didn’t let it go all the way through the end. The fortune teller lines in the middle rang like a siren, I was absolutely enthralled by the end of it. Thank you for this.

Thoughts? I love those.

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