Naked Hands (Poem 359)

Looking down at my naked hands, 

I notice they are not working 

ice-cold water, a little at a time, 

into flour and lard, rolling the dough 

to a perfect thickness to contain 

beef juice and melting butter, 

nor are they handing the trimmings 

to little girls eager to fold and crimp 

their own tiny pies.

Looking down at my naked hands, 

I am amazed at how clean they are--

no paint stains too stubborn 

for turpentine, no red clay in crevices 

and grooves, no berry juice, 

tree sap, or dark rich potting soil 

under the nails.

Looking down at my naked hands, 

I notice they are still, rather 

than endlessly busy with needle, 

shuttle and thread, embroidering 

flowers and tatting lace for hundreds 

of handkerchiefs, pillowcases, 

doilies and antimacassars.

Looking down at my naked hands, 

I recognize a few tiny sun spots, 

a raised vein, the texture of skin 

not quite as plump and immaculate

as a child's. I see that they are 

familiar, comfortable, capable, and 

(with a frisson of surprise) 

I see that they are mine.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six