Your hands are Quakers,
calloused, noble in sunlight, quiet together.
Mine keep a wild creed. Even in vigil
they wander; blind, anchored to the body
in roots of wrist; their souls feed
on nerve-path shivers.
My hands believe. They know the brain
works in mysterious ways; they must
go and fetch a lamb. Forgive an enemy.
Hands are the organ of touch. No other
appendage feels the same range.
I know what you are going to say
about pleasure, but it is wrong; my hands
learn to test many joys. Open flame.
The texture of weaving. Pancake batter.
Cat scratches. Your hands
are salt, nicked every day
by every job. They congregate with mine
and forgive all tresspasses, as you forgive
their crusades. Your hands join
to pass through one country
and the next, to touch the world.
They leap into the whirlwind.
There is a space in the palm of my left hand
I keep for Elijah.