These hands, gnarled
now from the sacks
and cartons, ship-
borne, weighted
with apples, filled
with nails, hard onions
and beans tilted and thrust
upon the stacks below
deck, the juncture of thumb
and forefinger that grasped
and twisted the dirty,
grease-lathered ten-pound
turnbuckles, that turned
shackle pins and carried
pike poles, grasping,
screwing, coiling, straining
delicate bone, tendon,
muscle and joint, the black
grit in torn finger nails
the dirt and dust that
clogged the skin, webs
of grime over palms, the pulse
of blood, the fit of paltry
gloves, hardened flesh
of callouses, blood surging
through these hands
that cramp now
with the twist of a jar,
useless to thread a needle.
I lay them in my lap,
softer now but still carrying
the weight of cargo as
the ships sail and surge
weightless over the waves.
