May 2014 - Comments Off

Five Hands

Jeremy Geragotelis '16

I.
I have baby hands, still.
Tainted orange by (only) last summer’s
sun
and my olive-grove origins.
They are not cracked-white,
Like my brother’s –
Ridges of biological code
Running over/over pink deserts.
But they are baby hands.


Not man hands.

Exhibit I.
Pictured grasping, grabbing
Choke.
The man at the meeting wrinkles his giant hands
In the tissues
(drenched with nervous snot) –
Bury them, so as to avoid the shame they sense.
Scarred animals; counted the memories of touching your lips,
His cock,
Your computer keys.

Exhibit II.
The pulsating, venous plier
Stringing / bowing
With sad puppy dog eyes.
Do not mistake venous for Venus.
I did not ride the ecstasy you expect in the hellos
You share.
Instead, eyes drift to hands
I remembered last Tuesday night when I saw you play the violin.

Exhibit III.
My father.

These add up to five hands.
Four I wish I had.
One I am stuck with.

Four other hands I wish I had.

Published by: in Issue 2: Spring 2014, Volume 70

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