my hands

My hands are invalids.
They stink with rotten muscle,
That digests into lethargy before my eyes.

The knuckles swell with disuse,
And redden with a bruised quality
From banging my thighs
As I walk with no destination.

My hands betray me.
They submit to looking feminine
With pale fragile nails.
They’ve overthrown the calluses
That I’d beaten into them
For the sake of a higher purpose.

The fingers have grown clumsy.
They have snipped their own nerves
And the will to hold on.
They care for nothing I offer them.

My hands are my enemies
United against me in protest.
They sever me lifeless from obsession.
They rescue me.


clr