Tag Archives: hands-on

OUTSIDE HANDS

 

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Afterlife outside
the scars on my hands overlap,
a crisscross map of urgencies

and feeble judgment,
of blindly reaching for
admirable manhood at ten,

digging a bullet from a post,
pocket knife folding
to the bone of a left finger.

The hay hook at sixty
sunk into the back of my right
wrapped in blue bandana

until the steers were shipped—
a long white mountain range
that intersects a short ridge

I have forgotten.
Outside white cuffs
they look like clubs—

but they have loved
from the beginning,
yet wear no scars for that.