These Hands (Poem)
In 2007,
these hands
had only really been used
for light labor:
administrative duties
and retail rigamarole, you know:
typing really fast,
the occasional fax,
unpacking new shoes for display,
unfolding white plastic bags that say,
“Have a Nice Day.”
Then I got cast in a play:
“The Colored Museum” by George C. Wolfe!
In 2007,
I was 23;
these hands
were hard at work:
marking up my script,
scribbling notes from Scot,
young actor emoting
because I was working double duty
performing two roles: The Kid and Topsy!
Well, triple if you count the required technical credit—
you know, liberal arts college sh*t:
“You can’t just be a performer.
You should know how to do everything.”
I knew nothing about table saws,
but was placed in the scene shop
to build a dresser for the play.
Tim gave me detailed instructions,
Dre showed me the ropes,
but Steve looked at me funny
in the middle of me splitting a wood plank
into two,
and at the end of the splitting,
these hands
reached past the blade that was spinning,
without pushing the button to stop
the serrated steel from slicing,
and caught a fade.
Twice.
This right index finger
was cut down to the white meat,
to right before flesh greets bone;
this right middle finger,
the innocent bystander,
got grazed, too.
I was calm.
I initially freaked once blood leaked out,
but I breathed and prayed:
“If God got me, He got me.”
The ER nurse shouted, “Great googly moogly!” when she saw me.
I had yet to see that Ben Stiller movie,
but Dre joked
that my chances of being a hand model
were no longer in sight.
She was right.
That was 2007.
The nerves
in this right index finger
ain’t been right since—
can’t tell if water or hair dryer
is too hot for my skin
until it burns it,
can barely grip a jar lid to turn it
without having to wince,
but these hands have since
wiped thousands of tears,
clenched hard fists but refused to hit,
joined in Holy matrimony,
counted plenty money,
massaged, loved,
and lifted my baby up.
What’s messed up
is that I was so caught up
on the visible scars
that I forgot how miraculous
these hands are.
Or were.
It is 2023,
6 weeks into chemo,
and these hands
ache.
In the mornings, I awake
to bone pain, fingertip joints strained
before they get to work.
I’m told, “It’s normal,”
but these hands
hurt.
I clasp them and pray,
do exercises from physical therapy,
grip ice packs to get that ol’ thing back,
dream of the day they’ll clap
when the phrase, “Cancer-free”
is associated with me,
of the days
these fingers
will simply be
extremities.
My gel manicure is no longer poppin’,
but the only option
to keep these now-brittle nails from
peeling in on themselves.
These hands
ain’t never been simple—
like me.
These hands
are both battered and blessed
like me.
