Gyroscope Review 16-4 - Page 33

HANDS HOLLEY LUX BY JENNIFER I will wash my hands. With water, with soap. I will wash with vigor. And often. Today, I touched machines both inside and out. Their greased gears. Their levers handled by one thousand men. Before I touch myself again, I will rid myself of dirt that stains my clothes and of germs that sink unnoticed into my pores. I will make myself worthy of touch. I will wash my hands of the fights of yesterday and ready them for the fights of today. The work is hard. My hands are raw. In the morning, after I step out of the shower, I view my long, white body behind the fog in the mirror. My red hands dangle from my long, white arms like someone else’s hands sewn onto my wrists. Too much lifeblood fills my hands. I cannot control what they will do. Late last night, for instance, I walked into a doughnut shop to wash my hands. A woman stood in my way. She would not let me past the line. My hands, they hit her. I said “I’m sorry,” but no one heard because everyone was yelling and the lights were bright. The strangers in the shop surprised me by pointing at my chest instead of my hands. They cannot see inside me. They cannot see what I have done right. The nights I listened for morning birds, letting a woman beside me sleep. Not touching her at all. Sometimes my hands don’t listen. They go their own way. I am blamed for this. If people saw how I hold back. If they saw how many bruises I have not let happen because I hold back, they would love me. At every step, my hands are part of me yet are not. Like wings on a bird. You see? My hands, they fly.
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