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Hands
A hand hangs down like a bunch of keys,
Like a tassel on a curtain tie,
Or a hand of bananas on a tree.
Fingers touch and pry,
Feel and prod,
Point and scratch;
And hands can open, shut them,
Lay on laps.
A finger has:
A hinge to bend –
A knuckle-lump, sultana-bump;
A flat, pink-nail scallop-shell
Stuck on the end.
Hands have fans
Of bones in skin.
Fingers click and flick,
Twist lids, and write, and draw.
My hand, though,
likes holding yours,
because your hand is warm.
Copyright ©
Jeanette Swan
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