Rough fingertips, worn and calloused
Touch the air and tell me otherwise
They have pulled a trigger
And caressed the luminous silk of
An infant’s head.
The have massaged a heart that stopped beating –
To no avail
And cracked the fingers of a rival in a whirlpool
Of spiral fractures.
They have made music on the necks of violins
Churning me to weep inside –
Pointed with derision and anger
They have pounded corn, opened books,
Fixed flat tires, burned on cooking stones –
Making food for my children.
They have touched women in burning passion,
Wiped blood from my wounds
Handled food that I fed myself and others
They have pet dogs and held me to cliff faces.
They have dug holes in the sandy ground which I have slept in,
Serving as pillows against the earth.
Shame has come and gone in cycles with these tools.
They wrote these words.
Am I my fingertips, or are they me?