kels(dot)blog

These are my hands, not my father’s

These are my hands, small and tender

Loving, giving, careful hands

And bounties carried in them.

These are my hands, not my father’s

Magic hands of childlike wonder

Soft and subtle, quiet hands

Clenched in rage but I can calm them.

In the mirror I shake and say that

These are my hands, not my father’s

Did not wound myself today

with hands that harm me e’re so often.