Composition (hands)

What are we made of if not the
curling fist, the momentum of a hand
That refuses to let loose
Even with scathed knuckles, stiff fingers,
Flaky, achey skin,
If not the momentum of wrinkly, coarse
Hands, stirring a large pot, cutting up
Onions with firmness and care, the
Precision of time spent perfecting
The stirring, the seasoning of
Potatoes and cold, numb skin,
The gentle yet firm massaging of
Dough and sore muscles,
The smooth piano of fingers
Massaging oils and salty tears
Between the plains of palms,
Generations lost in black and white photos, hand written recipes
And memorabilia,
What are we if not the slippery slope
Of handpicked memories, recurring patterns
Of bricks and stones that we conquer
Then lose, our names
Carved in the sand, blue skies
That we never get to quite freeze
In time, frozen in time
Yet nothing lasts but the cycle
Of hands scratching old skin,
Cells dying and resurrecting themselves, fingerprints
On wet soil, our skin like stardust
Dropping to the earth, strands of hair, old nails,
Our DNA written in soil, the wings
Of a butterfly, the centuries-old roots of a tree. What are we if not
The branches of a tree that tells a story
Of hands planting livelihood
Then plucking wild fruit from the earth, day in day out, sun in sun out
Until there’s no more day left
In a certain pair of hands,
Until the sun rises but the hands fold.
Until the sun rises but the fist falls,
The fist always rises
Until it falls
And isn’t that what it means to survive,
And isn’t that what it means to be
Alive.
I rest my tired, hungry face
In your hands
And I am not ashamed.
Today my tired fist is a reminder
That what we both do best is survive.
You give me your hand, I pick myself up.
I whisper 'Today, we are alive’.