DABrown

firsthand

my hands are cups
no, are bowls,
buckets that hold invisible tears.
these hands speak many languages.
listen for the nuances they convey
as they circle themselves,
each a planet en route.
fingers to investigate fruit
pluck pizzicato on a violin string.
my wrists are solid pedestals
beneath two grave, immobile busts.
wrists that love when bracelets
ruffle their countenance
or hold the hands that sense
death's breadth and huff in knuckles at dawn.
my hands will knit you heartstrings
play neat tricks, they have closed eye's curtains.
they're mute balloons tethered by threads
of electrical current
they're carefree dolphins gliding through water
that beckon my body to follow.
hands alive like dragonflies
spangled and winged, seekers of brightest sustenance.
these steady fists that dart
about the air
and yet susceptible to rest
settle to the ground, fleshed petals of tranquility
folded by a quiet beauty, corporeal and fleeting.