(lipbalm)

I read somewhere
to put lip balm
on your nails,
and so I do.
The tangerine hemp
kind I use.
It makes them glossy,
they seem to like it.
And forget the bowl
of vinegar I dipped
them in this
morning.
The pebbles I
sifted for weeds.
My hands have
never had an
easy life.
or been revered
for what they do.
They’ve never
had a store bought
manicure, and won’t
have now. That
I’ve sworn off
the products they
use. The poisonous
smells of acetone.

I saw a film
of a basket maker,
her hands stubby
and rough.
What ugly hands
my friend exclaimed
just as a tenderness
toward them filtered
up. Because I know
how they feel
as they bend
the damp fibers and
stitch them in
place.

The Hopi potter
I met her hands
glistening with clay
the color of her skin.
Who taught me joy
with her toothless
grin, and all a woman needs, is work
she loves to put
her hands to
as she grows old.

I have a bias
toward woman’s
hands that work.
And fear the ones
who hold their fingers
stiff, afraid to touch
until the lacquer
dries. Their finger tips
pasted and taped, built
up like a paper mache
pinata.
The squared off
tips, a mean
fire engine red.

I cannot imagine
the lives these
hands live.

My daughter laughs
at my farm girl
hands, wide and
plain. As solid
as the ground
they grew from.
I always wanted
pretty hands,
with shapely nails
in shiny colors
But then found
out, I did not
like all that dead life
at the tips of my hands.

Lip gloss is simple enough
to be something I
might do.
And makes no pretentions
of being something
that lasts.

At first I am stunned
by the hands
of the woman
beside me
at the town council
debate.
So weathered for
someone so young Is that gardening
I wonder at first.
Her hands are the
most interesting
thing going on.
I want to turn &
ask if she makes
pots. But I do
not.
And so the curiosity
stays with me
the next day
as I am walking
I find myself
remembering her hands.

4/20/99