They are large hands,

And sweaty, too.

They are callused; the thumb especially hardened

from the roughness of Brazilian music

from the groove, and the swing beat.

They are bumpy, but when they run up the keys

They are fast and smooth,

(as cool as samba)

And the noise they make

Is unstoppable.

A great thunder and a soft recline of clouds

A thundering chord and a lullaby,

the hands play them all.

The pinky and the thumb

Reach so far apart

That they do not know one another.

They see 10 worlds.

Each world is a white square wafer

That sings a melody

With black stepping stones in between

That twang dissonance, and harmony.

The hands are frenzied and furious

In all that they do.

There is never rest;

The rest is filled with tapping

And twirling

And drumming

And beating

I wonder to myself what he hears.

My brother's fingers are music.