These Hands
by David Bowles



These hands are not my grandfather's hands,
Gnarled and corded, cratered with sores,
Crisscrossed with lines and cement burns
That chart six decades of plastering toil.

These hands are not my father-in-law's,
Small but powerful, eternally stained
By engine grease and gasoline,
Gripping lightly an improbable bible.

Stubby, clean, nails clipped to the quick—
My hands dance across keyboards,
Spinning out words and sounds.
One day I hope they will as well
Belong to a master craftsman.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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