I have two hands, ten fingers, painted with bright colors chipping off, bloody hangnails

Pale skin, a roadmap of blue veins underneath, a tiny crescent scar beneath one knuckle

Joints in all of the fingers and the crisscrossing pattern of lines drawn by God on my palms

Skin smudged with graphite, charcoal, smeared with chocolate after an ice cream cone

Hands so familiar to warrant a cliche because what do you know better than the back of your own hand?

These hands are mine, unquestionably so because of the fine print that laces each fingertip

These hands are instruments of power, able to perform a noble act or a destructive one

But the bones and nerves tracing under my skin from my mind give me control of them

I use these hands for the ordinary, lending them a keyboard so they can type English essays

They regularly hold pencils, use laces and zippers, high five, and press buttons on a remote 

I make them wave to other hands, risk surprisingly painful cuts from turning pages of a book

I take for granted these hands that are eager to learn new tricks, discover their limits

But these hands have been used for the extraordinary, and they have not failed me yet

These fingers can form all of the letters of a language I have hardly begun to learn

Their agility can form hearts and write cursive using the controls of an Etch-a-Sketch

They can grasp a paintbrush and turn a blank canvas into the cause of another mouth's smile

These hands have held rock, pulling me up to heights I had never before reached

Trembling, they have drawn medicine from a vial to help the rest of this body

They have clasped other hands to help a fallen person stand again, to comfort and qualm fear

These hands have a memory, pushing keys in notes, playing music if my lungs provide the air

These hands have shaken other hands, forming a greeting that becomes a friendship

These hands have clapped and wiggled and tickled to succeed in making a small child laugh

These fingers have intertwined with those of the boy I love, mine seeming little against his

Heat passing from his body to mine through the soft skin of our palms as they touch

These hands have the power to transmit ideas, they are my silent communication

They can record any thought, any quote, any image, any time, any place, for anyone

They have the power to annihilate, but also the power to spark inspiration, provoke a catalyst

With this power, these hands are their own poetry in their beautifully elaborate simplicity