I had a friend who, when we were younger, called my hands hobbit hands, because I have hair on my knuckles. I've never really liked that about my hands, but still, they play pianos, they bang drums, the snap, they gesture.
My hands are learning new skills all the time. They type a lot, and relatively quickly. They're learning to knit, and to spin thread with a bundle of wool and a spinning stick.
My hands are sometimes clumsy. I cut myself with paper or knives, especially if I'm not paying attention to what they're doing. When I playfully punch a friend, I've sometimes done it too hard, or, reaching for a glass, knocked it over, instead.
My hands are joyful. When I take a bite of delicious food, my fingers wiggle with delight. I see friends in a crowded room, and my hand waves to get their attention. My hands stroke the face of my lovers, tracing the jaw, the eyebrows, the temples I love.
My hands feed me. My fingers roll Ethiopian injera around a spicy cube of lamb and put it in my mouth. My palm likes the smooth kiss of the curve of an apple fresh plucked from the branch.
My hands write, shape, craft. They touch, feel, play. My fingers stroke, strum, slide. They wiggle, they stumble, they love.
I love with my hand, not my heart.
When I draw your face,
my fingers trace your lips.
Crossing a page, my hand keeps
contours; I know that art
I touch when I type.
With every finger's tip
I travel the weave of the given.
Hand me a pencil,
Cut off my head,
and I will draw you heaven.