Hands like Houses

Right here, right now

I wish my hands were magic,

instead my touch turns to dust,

and they can’t keep hold any more.

 

My hands can be frantic,

panicking over sustaining no trust,

and confused as to what they exist for.

 

My hands aren't at all anything special.

Nope. No wands can be powered here--

not Wingardium Leviosa, Sectumsempra, or even Alohomora,

because this is reality, and that was seven fiction books

made into eight big franchise movies.

 

My hands often become destructive and fatal--

like the time my mom handed me her only credit card to scrape the outside window.

I remember the icy air nipping at my skin,

the stabbing wind pushing on the moving vehicle,

and my burning fingers slipped!

 

My hands don’t even sing or make beautiful melodies,

I watched him learn six amazing instruments,

and I was so jealous of him it appeared to be sin,

he could be anything-effortlessly-soulfully

but me… I am buried ten feet beneath my bones.

 

My hands, my hands fumble feelings,

mistake my best for my worst,

like having to letting go of those memories,

the ones that needed no light or full sentences,

but ached to be told anyway.

 

My hands stay empty,

he wasn’t here to take the place

of cold palms waiting for warmth,

because like getting to know myself,

he was ten thousand miles forth.

 

Tell me the hands are like houses,

as if these imprints of fingerprints holding up pieces of time,

told through the unstable structure of my phalanges,

could answer every yearning question upon my tongue.

 

Tell me, hands are like houses,

so I’ll see that these are only the floor plans and the ideas now,

all hoping to be built up passed the boards and nails welded together

--to become that home we all wonder for.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Our world

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