Hands,

this is a love poem for you.

And since, dear ones, you are writing it yourselves,

It is also a love poem from you.

How perfect, that you are both the subject and the means.

Oh, but there are many perfect things about you.

The way you bend at the wrist when you reach out

The loveliest of offerings

The way your fingers curl

When you caress a lover

Or a sculpture

(And really, they’re the same thing don’t you know?)

I’m sorry that I rarely scrub under your cuticles

And that I sometimes bite your nails

Please forgive me for the middle school years

When I thought you were too fat,

Not dainty enough.

Because you are talented, hands!

You guide a paintbrush like I’ve never quite understood

You can fold cloth

Grind spices

Light matches

And besides, a perfect pair of hands

I have learned

Is one that knows how to touch

And not how to look