My hands – Your Life

Your hands they summon me,

rudely

“clean up that mess”

” go fetch that bag”

“tidy the room”

“wash those clothes”

” sweep that floor”

“scrub the sink

“that plate’s dirty”

“put your bed on the floor”

always pointing, always showing,

calling, sending, summoning, telling,

ordering, dictating

My hands always doing

cleaning, scrubbing,

mopping, washing,

fetching, carrying,

cooking, cutting and then

cleaning some more.

servant cleaning utensils

Your hands they come upon me

stealthily

as I sleep.

Touching, probing,

caressing, groping,

kneading, poking, hurting.

Their touch

sends a cold shiver

up my soul.

My hands,

praying,

god whatever this is,

please make it stop.

Don’t touch me! Please stop!

Your hands they hit.

They push,

shove,

pull,  snatch, hurt and break.

They  pinch, slap and take.

Powerful, they point,

accuse, threaten and abuse.

“Me” they  always ‘blame’.

For what?

I don’t really understand the ‘game’.

My hands

weak, frail, wasted and hesitant.

If only they had

some of your strength.

Your hands beautiful,

soft, white,

dainty, elegant

Delicate, long red tipped fingers

move  gracefully

mesmerized

I watch

admiring,

captivated by their beauty

Your hands they smell

wonderful like rose petals

and a hint of fresh lime

I’m tempted to reach out

and touch

but then

I look at mine.

Hard,

calloused,  stumpy,

blistered

they smell of detergent and sweat and grime.

When I am alone

and have the time

I think

If  god ever asks me

what I want?

Doubtless

I will ask

for your hands

for

with your hands

I may get your life.

32 thoughts on “My hands – Your Life

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