Poetic Interlude I

I am saying “I like hands”

And you are hearing “Hands are nice”

But I am meaning that I hear ancient melodies

Woven around the knuckles of masons

That I feel the urgency of womanhood

In the iron of my mother’s fingernails

That I see scars and missing digits

As if they were as serious as prophecies

I am saying “I like hands”

And I am meaning that a man’s cupped hands

Move me as much as a chorus

That the anger in a woman’s palm

Is comparable to the loss of a sparrow

That someone’s finger crooked toward me

Lifts me more than twenty compliments

I am saying “I like hands”

And that is all you’re hearing