HANDS
HOLLEY LUX
BY JENNIFER
I will wash my hands. With water, with soap. I will wash with vigor. And often. Today, I touched
machines both inside and out. Their greased gears. Their levers handled by one thousand men.
Before I touch myself again, I will rid myself of dirt that stains my clothes and of germs that sink
unnoticed into my pores. I will make myself worthy of touch. I will wash my hands of the fights
of yesterday and ready them for the fights of today. The work is hard. My hands are raw. In the
morning, after I step out of the shower, I view my long, white body behind the fog in the mirror.
My red hands dangle from my long, white arms like someone else’s hands sewn onto my wrists.
Too much lifeblood fills my hands. I cannot control what they will do. Late last night, for
instance, I walked into a doughnut shop to wash my hands. A woman stood in my way. She
would not let me past the line. My hands, they hit her. I said “I’m sorry,” but no one heard
because everyone was yelling and the lights were bright. The strangers in the shop surprised me
by pointing at my chest instead of my hands. They cannot see inside me. They cannot see what I
have done right. The nights I listened for morning birds, letting a woman beside me sleep. Not
touching her at all. Sometimes my hands don’t listen. They go their own way. I am blamed for
this. If people saw how I hold back. If they saw how many bruises I have not let happen because
I hold back, they would love me. At every step, my hands are part of me yet are not. Like wings
on a bird. You see? My hands, they fly.
Gyroscope Review 16-4
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