Categories
Poetry

Wild Hands

My finger runs across my palm, searching for callouses.

My finger runs across my palm /
searching for callouses / but finding
only finding soft skin / sheltered thumbs,
knuckles thirsty for pain

The blisters from plucked guitar strings have
long healed / as has the fire in my gut
to be a traveling bard / leaving folk tales and
adventures in my wake

Dead skin waits in the space where my palm
and fingers meet / begging for steel as my
hand grips a pen to build mental strength /
forced to contend with dirty dishes

Unbroken fingernails jut out /
uneven, untrimmed /
dreaming of wet sand and soft dirt / blades of grass
and cat tails kissing my fingers as I run past /
chasing another sunset / These dreams now
scratch puppy heads and clean litter boxes

My knuckles crack under pressure of boredom /
longing for canvas-covered bags and stone walls /
bleeding for a reason to be tested / burning holes
in my pockets.

These wild animals attached to my arms
are now domesticated / obeying my commands
as I escape my primitive desires for higher callings /
until I stick my them in the ground, for old time’s sake.

 

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