Your Hands

In honor of Jake’s birthday today, I want to share a poem I wrote for him last year. Jake and I don’t usually give big, expensive gifts for birthdays and prefer to just do something fun together. This year I got him a Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness tshirt because we are obsessed with Parks and Recreation (it’s even funnier than The Office!)and a pearl snap shirt. I’m not sure what we are going to do to celebrate today since Jake prefers spontaneous fun to planned birthday events. My guess is we’ll probably go to dinner and then downtown, but who knows… And on with the poem:

Your Hands

I knew I loved you the moment you showed me your hands. You said
at some point, I’ve broken each finger, like when you smashed
bike into ground, hands
crumbling on impact, bones crunching and twisting easily
reforming, molding, and shaping
like they were meant to.
You held up your hands, wide palms spread
open and said, now they’re all a little
crooked, each finger points in a slightly different
direction, when you said it you never broke your
expression, not one little crease on your forehead,
no crack in your voice,like
the pain meant nothing, or maybe
you just enjoyed healing. Now,
you lie next to me, with that same calm
face and untroubled expression, and
I’ve only had my eyes open for five minutes but
all I can think is how I want you
to shape me like
clay in your hands, and how I
need to know what it means
to be shattered
and broken, need to feel flesh
healed, to touch
every crooked finger.

2 thoughts on “Your Hands”

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