That shape my hair into multiple plaits,
And whittle my name into wood.
Hands that pull back an archer’s bow,
And tie a bowline with ease.
Hands that challenge you to a duel,
Wielding all manner of weapons.
Hands that make fry bread and carve turkey,
And pack cans of whole tomatoes
And place uncooked rice in baggies.
Hands effortlessly make straight lines.
Straight stitches, beautiful forms.
Hands that are always warm,
That carry my sleeping body with care.
And deposit me in the laundry closet with love.