My stubby hands
with nails
eroded by my teeth,
too much cuticle,
dry shards of skin
spouting from its tips,
craters at its knots,
tiny follicles erupt
out of every pore
like volcanoes.
My hands are an artist’s
stained with paint of yesterdays,
mounds like rocks
battered by the sea,
they belittle my roots,
my privilege.
my hands are my father’s
who works with grease,
they twist every jar
effortlessly.
My hands are not:
dainty, soft, discriminating.
They are only yielding
when held long enough.
My hands are ruins
that built castles.
My hands,
they are trunks of trees,
life marches on its lines
carelessly.