Marisa Tirado
Writer & Photographer | Chicago, IL
My Hands
My hands move when I sleep.
They clench like my jaw before chills
on a high dive, clench before sinking cold
into the dream where I brush my teeth
so much they fall out.
When I dream, my hands find
things I lost in the left bottom drawer,
they unbury desires—
chop off enemies’ blonde braids.
My hands destroy.
They ruin coffee hours,
knock beverages into undeserving laps,
strangle life out of straws,
leave napkins and sugar packets
in merciless piles of confetti.
My hands do not obey.
They curve C’s too far up dotted lines.
My teacher wrote marks with red pen,
crossed out uppercases I had no control over.
Again and again my hands defied 1st grade duties,
pushed boys over at the playground—
all I recall of recess is banishment,
standing in time-out, glaring
as others patty-cake with calm palms,
old pursed lips barking daily
keep your hands to yourself,
keep them to yourself.
They remember my mother.
For years my hands watched her
tap tables for assistance, click nails
on the wheel and twist worried rings,
carve pie crust and pick candle wax.
When I’m not looking they mimic her
twitching thumbs, her spoon stirring, calf scratching.
My hands reconcile our faded arguments,
genetic pacifists,
torn feelings mend simply when
recalling the way her pinkies lift
off paint brushes and telephones
while I ramble of a recent
road trip to Quebec.