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.