Fist
by Peg Duthie
Resisting the temptation
to loosen my guard,
I keep my fingertips
snug against my palm
even when swimming,
even when rinsing
sand out of toy buckets
and soil out of flowerpots
and on Sundays even track
the verses of each hymn
with the side of my hand
instead of an index finger.
It is no way to live,
hands too ready to claw
at what they cannot clutch.
So: show me how to scrub
at the lies of the air
and the fibs of the flesh
with my hands as rake and fountain
instead of cudgel and stone.
I would have my hands
be able to speak
with the eloquence of flags
and the weightlessness of smoke
and yet still be able
to play at crushing scissors
while succumbing to paper.