A poem about hands

In this vividly tactile poem, Meg Ferge contemplates the diversity of sensations, ideas, relationships, histories and desires she finds in her own two hands.

A poem about hands

Something Specific

Written in an Internal Community Writing Workshop in November 2023. The soft prompt for the week was to write about something specific.

Dry, typically cracked in the creases,
winter months are brutal.
Feels like low-grit sandpaper,
Skinny and long accompanied by bulging joints.

Once proudly playing
Hearing its routine crack, always a relief.

Moving slowly with delicate touch upon its neighbors;
If brave, tastes dirt, last meal remnants or unwashed soap —

Found scratching, itching, creating, wiping away, twisting
Lots of twisting.

Almost always cold at its touch.
A carrier to pieces that resemble history

Maintains grasp when feeling,
Relaxes open when at peace.
Prays when feeling lost, claps when needing energy —
Once yearned to be a mechanic, a gardener, anything that would show its work.

When pressed together and holding each other, my mom is near,
And perhaps her mom is near, it’s my belief.

We all have the same ones.
Generations of servers,
And welcomers.