drawing hands i used to think i could will myself to recreate knuckle & thumb. stare long enough at my palms & my fingers so that when i took pen to paper i could replica with no hesitation. my father bought me a sketch book & i tried over & over. an orphanage of hands sequestered in turning spacious white rooms. float wrists. sink arms. my fingers reaching & coiling. then loose. clasping. in frustration, i would often tear a page out & then stop before crumpling my lop-sided hands. then, simply fold & deliver them to trash can burials. later, apart from pencil & pad, my hands punished me. i folded them on my chest. watched rise & fall with each breath. from learning to be an altar boy, the only rule i remember is to always have your hand around a holy plate or a candle and, if not, then it should be holding the other. without me, sometimes, my hands would knot themselves trying to transform into birds or beings. in a mirror, i let them touch my face with curiosity. strange how i once thought my body whole & then, upon inspection, can denote so many parts. my skull that asks to please recreate my hands & my hands, who, being the body's mischeif conduits, refuse.