small tokens

Hands fall into one another as naturally
as rain reaching the ground.

Small comforts of warmth, tokens of affection
soothing unseen parts.

Caressing your nape, breathing you in-
you do the same.

The world grows silent around us,
the wind raising the hair on our arms.

Gentle Grip

One sided conversation
You listening
Projecting a version of my voice

I cannot see you
Cannot know who you are
When you might be

Speaking through shared means
inhabiting the same home
with time the variable

Jazz speaks in improvisation
nothing creating something
existing fleetingly

Are your hands cold?
How would they feel in mine?
We wonder together.

Present Hauntings

There are times I am ashamed
of my soft, smooth hands.
They bear little resemblance
to those of my father.

Veins protrude and snake
around his joints and knuckles
like rivers lining the earth.

I was not born in the land
of my forbearers- I was born
a continent and ocean away.

My hands have not known
the toil of cutting trees
from hot jungle, or carried

cords of wood at daybreak
back into town as doors
and eyes opened for the day.

His life is his life. My life
is my own. Ancient soil
longs to cake my nails.

Skin aches to cool itself
in tranquil waters of cenotes
found far from town.

My hands have labored
in a way they never would
had they been given to

the land from which my blood
flows, from where ancient
memories haunt me in sleep-
places I have never known.

What Wing Biddlebaum Knew

I always notice a persons hands.

They are not the most obvious thing,

but they tell far more than the face or eyes.


You cannot hide a lifetime of work

in cragged, sinewy hands that bear

a resemblance to the claws


of some terrible lizard; soft, callous free

hands tell their story just as clearly.

Hands of privilege and work


wear no masks, they are afforded none.

They wear ease and hardship in even strokes.

Be weary of anyone unwilling to shake hands.

To Grip / To Hold

Keep your grip tight 


until the fingers give way.