My Hands

I look at my hands, considering

My hands are who I am

They tell the story of me

There’s the month-old black nail polish

Chipped and fading on nails that are kept too short

And then, there are my fingers

Perhaps not so very long, not so very beautiful

But strong and dexterous nonetheless,

Strength gotten from bending metal, from hammering wood, 

They press the keys on my piano, they cover the keys on my clarinet

And were I to smell them, now, they would have the faint, metallic tang left over from guitar strings

And as I turn my hand over, I notice the calluses

Left on the middle joint of all the fingers by too many hours slaving over my pliers

All save my thumb – it has a callus down the side

My fingertips, too, are callused from pressing down guitar strings,

And the side of my right index is rough, too, because of how I hold my pen

My hands could have been graceful,

Could have been soft, could have been elegant

But, no, they are my hands

They have sacrificed what might have been their own small beauty,

To make something much more beautiful

They gave away all traces of grace and elegance,

To play out notes in ever-spiraling cords,

To work metal until it’s wrought into armor, flowing like water over a fighter’s form

To write words, until someday they might write something eloquent and attractive, and memorable in a way they will never be

They have made their sacrifices for the craft

They truly are my hands