Weird. And what are you?
Folding everything important
except liquid, drenched
with inopportune sweat,
ten digits
like a phone number,
seizing like talons
though we don’t
necessarily find
our own food
or anything really
to hold onto.

My grandma
used mine to
clasp her bra
behind her shingled back,
asked if I could
tie her shoes
when her knuckles
turned to knobs.
These pointed things
on our twisty wrists
are performances
of young and love
and young love.

You can make a swan
on a wall, but what
was that church, steeple,
here’s all the people
song about anyways?
I only noticed
my confused thumbs,
never ever cut my nails.
I guess daily function
wore down
the points.
Have you ever thought
of all the things you do
with your hands?

Have you ever thought
of all the things
you don’t?

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