Descriptive writing in the key of C

My hands are dirty.

Dirt ground into the creases. Dirt so stained it doesn’t wash out. Stains the skin dark brown and gray. It gets under the nails no matter how short they’re cut. If I was cleverer or more motivated I would make this a poem about race in society. This poem is a description of my hands.

My hands are dry and chapped.

Catch at smooth bedsheets. The skin cracks. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between a thorn in my living flesh and a simple abrasion of my abused skin. When the thick of the dirt comes off the gray lines criss cross my hands, stretched tight at the knuckles and on the palms and ready to snap. It hurts.

My hands are are calloused.

Can no longer find the threads in a piece of embroidery, raised ink on paper. Can no longer find the cracks in a hose or a stone wall. The calluses go from the base of my palms to the tips of my fingernails. Some are old, thick and numb. Some are newer, still red and raw, growing strong and impartial.

My hands are useful.

Have killed and gutted a chicken. Have fed a baby chick water for the first time in its life. Have planted broccoli seeds, harvested potatoes. These hands write, they hold a pen, or tap dance across the keyboard. Have guided a steering wheel or heft a sand bag. Cut off a flower’s head or pull it out by the roots. Cook, do dishes, vacuum, build a stone karin. The can hold the face, or hands, or ass of a lover, or good fuck. They can be soft are hard but they’re always moving. If I were a better poet, I would end this with the steadiness of my hands, but instead I end with the truth. My hands often tremble.