My Hands, by Sue Norvell
The index fingers twist
improbably —
the little finger joints
warp south.
They are
my grandmother's hands
my father's hands
my hands.
I am reminded
of bread baked
seams sewn
hair smoothed
tears soothed.
My hands
reflect my years
but they remember
our past.
Fingers, by Sara Robbins
I remember your hands — large and thick,
nails bitten down to the quick.
You told me, when you were younger
your mother had tried to keep you from
the nasty habit — she'd painted something
bitter on your nails — to no avail.
Here you were, 17, still biting.
I held your hand in mine.
"Give me your hand," I'd say,
and then you didn't bite.
Your littlest sister said you had
loafy fingers and she was right.
She also said you had big teeth.
Loafy fingers and big teeth — an
unfiltered Camel cigarette held in your
right hand, me holding your left hand —
a speck of tobacco on your front tooth
which I pick off with my then-pretty hand.
This detail so clear in my memory.
Your loafy fingers in mine, our kiss
tasting of smoke.
Opposable Queens, by Donna Holt
Thenar Eminences —
pleasure to make your acquaintance,
dear Graces.
My apologies,
for taking your gifts for granted,
neglecting to give thanks for the countless ways
you make my daily life easier —
jar tops
socks & shoelaces
doorknobs
origami paper
tick removal
knotted muscles
ignition keys
a single almond or raisin —
how would I manage these
without your benevolent presence?
Thank you, your Highnesses
for working your magic
day after day
despite my ignorance of
your royal nature.
And to think I called you thumbs.
