At 16 years I knew a girl whose hands
were soft and still at rest. She seemed serene,
and she became the image I command
when I attempt to wipe my worry clean.
A year ago I started spending days
with baby Sam, whose growing antics fill
my heart, but it’s his resting hands that slay
me daily: tapered fingers, dimpled, still.
My mother ever fidgeted. She found
a thousand jobs to do and picked
her hands incessantly. She harped and frowned
when I sat still like I had some defect.
I lace my hands at rest now, palm to palm
with space between, and feel my edges calm.