Thursday, February 11, 2010

My hands

are building a crustaceous shell
like a lobster, boiled and breaded.
One is the torn liner in an old woolen coat,
the other is wood polished with ammonia.
They are mountains crumbling to sand,
faded maps made of November tree bark,
sentient lumps of chalk and driftwood.
The winter wind blows them down
on the ground like leaves, bitter and dead.

Note: the cold weather has made my hands dry, but not nearly as dry as I exaggerate them to be in this poem. Don’t worry, I have heard of moisturizer.

ALSO, check out my latest LAID post: Sure he's a slut, but what does that have to do with politics?

Photo by Rob Hingle

        I was uninspired today, so I did this poem as kind of an exercise in writing metaphors. Can you think of a metaphor for your hands that reflects the way they look or feel, the way you use them or some other quality?


Dorkmaster Flek said...

My hands are like Fred Astaire, dancing across the keyboard in choreographed precision. :)

SOL said...

Very nice. I loved all the imagery in this poem.

Mary said...

Wooden coat?... That sounds uncomfortable to wear. Yeah the knuckles on my right hand are all dry... yet I moisturize every day and night. Still probably not as much as I should though.

My hands are children with A.D.D., unable to rest, always fidgiting, annoying the crap out of their surroundings... (In this case I'm referring to my skin, hair, nails, loose threads, Johnny, etc.).