People used to tell me that I had beautiful hands
Told me so often in fact that one day
I started to believe them
Until I asked my photographer father
'Hey Daddy could I be a hand model'
to which he said
'No way'
I don't remember the reason he gave me
and I would've been upset
but there were far too many stuffed animals to hold
too many homework assignments to write
too many boys to wave at
too many years to grow
We use to have a game, my dad and I
about holding hands
Cause we use to hold hands everywhere
And every time either he or I
would whisper a great big number to the other
pretending we were keeping track of how
many times we had held hands
That we were sure that this one had to be the
eight million
two thousand
seven hundred
and fifty three
Hands learn, more than minds do
Hands learn how to hold other hands
How to grip pencils and mould poetry
How to tickle pianos and dribble a basketball
And grip the handles of a bicycle
How to hold old people and touch babies
I love hands like I love people
They are the maps and compasses'
with which we navigate our way through life
Some people read palms to tell your future
But I read hands to tell your past
Each scar marks a story worth telling
Each calloused palm or each cracked knuckle
is a missed punch or years in a factory
Now i've seen Middle Eastern hands clenched
And Middle Eastern fists
pounding against each other like war drums
Each country sees their fists as warriors
and others as enemies
Even if fists alone are only hands
But this is not about politics, no
this is a poem about love and fingers
Fingers interlocked like a beautiful zipper of prayer
One time I grabbed my dad's hands so that our fingers interlocked perfectly
But he changed positions saying
'No that hand hold is for your mum'
Kids high five
But grown ups we learn how to shake hands
You need a firm handshake
but don't hold on too tight
but don't let go too soon
but don't hold down for too long
But hands are not about politics
When did it become so complicated
I always thought it simple
The other day my dad looked at my hands
as if seeing them for the first time
And with laughter behind his eyelids
And with all the seriousness a man of his humour can muster
he said
'You know you have nice hands, you could've been a hand model'"
-Sarah Kay
Told me so often in fact that one day
I started to believe them
Until I asked my photographer father
'Hey Daddy could I be a hand model'
to which he said
'No way'
I don't remember the reason he gave me
and I would've been upset
but there were far too many stuffed animals to hold
too many homework assignments to write
too many boys to wave at
too many years to grow
We use to have a game, my dad and I
about holding hands
Cause we use to hold hands everywhere
And every time either he or I
would whisper a great big number to the other
pretending we were keeping track of how
many times we had held hands
That we were sure that this one had to be the
eight million
two thousand
seven hundred
and fifty three
Hands learn, more than minds do
Hands learn how to hold other hands
How to grip pencils and mould poetry
How to tickle pianos and dribble a basketball
And grip the handles of a bicycle
How to hold old people and touch babies
I love hands like I love people
They are the maps and compasses'
with which we navigate our way through life
Some people read palms to tell your future
But I read hands to tell your past
Each scar marks a story worth telling
Each calloused palm or each cracked knuckle
is a missed punch or years in a factory
Now i've seen Middle Eastern hands clenched
And Middle Eastern fists
pounding against each other like war drums
Each country sees their fists as warriors
and others as enemies
Even if fists alone are only hands
But this is not about politics, no
this is a poem about love and fingers
Fingers interlocked like a beautiful zipper of prayer
One time I grabbed my dad's hands so that our fingers interlocked perfectly
But he changed positions saying
'No that hand hold is for your mum'
Kids high five
But grown ups we learn how to shake hands
You need a firm handshake
but don't hold on too tight
but don't let go too soon
but don't hold down for too long
But hands are not about politics
When did it become so complicated
I always thought it simple
The other day my dad looked at my hands
as if seeing them for the first time
And with laughter behind his eyelids
And with all the seriousness a man of his humour can muster
he said
'You know you have nice hands, you could've been a hand model'"
-Sarah Kay
