The hand with no specialty
Open hand, free and dispossessed.
Able to tend, able to write and dance,
that hand that presses against the wall,
the one that caresses the body and holds it all.
Touching, gripping, throwing hand.
Torn by a wound,
creator of its extensions,
maker of new organs.
Self-replicating hand.
The whole moon in your hand,
a root extending through the fingers,
an incendiary skin.
These are life-giving,
radiant hands,
able to carry the flame
and retreat to make something visible.
The hand imprints a presence. Then it fades and flies away.
