I Am from the Church of Human Hands

the Hands that tighten the lug bolts on rotated tires,

the Hands that picked the hen-of-the woods

(and not death caps) I buy to make wild mushroom soup,

the hundreds of steady Hands clasping steering wheels on a highway,

the Hands of Lucille Clifton, Emily Dickinson, and Kay Ryan

the Hands of the surgeon who replaced my worn knee bones with titanium

the Hands of the man unearthing and fixing the water pipe to the house

the Hands of the engineer who designed the bridge I drive over every day

and the Hands of the ones who built it

the Hands of the pharmacist who counts out the right pills

the Hands of the assembly worker who attached my brakes

the Hands of lighthouse keepers, beacons in the fog and darkness

the Hands of my sisters who make beautiful things

the Hands that pick up the injured, move them to safety

the Hands of the women who forge paths through the uncharted

the Hand that holds a flaming torch on the edge of a country

the Hands that cooked the red Thai curry I ate last night

the Hands of my father, strong, warm, and kind

the Hands that planted daffodils, peonies, and blue irises I see each spring

the Hands that met me out of the womb

the Hands of the woman who cuts my hair

the Hands of Georgia O’Keefe, Mary Cassatt, and Picasso

the Hands of the rescuers after an avalanche

the Hands of the man in the ambulance who said, We’ve got you.

the Hands of my mother, making me clothes, sweaters, and chicken cordon bleu

the Hands of my students, raised and ready to speak

the Hands of my children, so small at first

the Hands of you, how grateful I am—

I have faith in what hands do.

Picture this scene in the Church

of Human Hands—our cupped Hands

holding holy water and maybe we Hand out

Hand-outs, and Hands-down,

everyone gets a Hand or lends a Hand.

Hand over Hand, we rise, do our jobs,

hold Hands or clap our Hands, pressed

together—our best, close at Hand.

 

Sarah Dickenson Snyder, Rattle March 8, 2020