8. still here

when you're gone 
I will remember you as all hands 
tensed in securing a perfectly tight knot 
bent in scraping, carving, sanding, pressing, 
an exacting force calling all that they touch into 
precise order, an unfurling beauty in the meticulousness 
of right angles, clean edges, tight bonds, a form swelled 
in the strength to hold its weight, to out weather
the passing of time 

you always tied my shoelaces too tight, brushed my hair with 
more efficiency than tenderness but the snug of the bath towel 
with my arms pinned at my side was a transposing magic, how 
it took a whole 30 mns of penguin walking through the living room 
for that tight tuck behind my left shoulder to wiggle loose 

I’ll remember the rapid staccato of a large fresh sharpened knife 
reducing each whole plump vegetable to tiny even sections before 
they are tossed in the pan, the oil always added in a single swift swoop even your fork sinking into each bite of pie, always a neat curl like the continuous spiral you made of the apple skin as you separated it from its crisp meat and the twist of the wine bottle never touching the glass lip or allowing a single drip to escape 

those hands were too impatient for a child's meandering 
forever snatching eager or frustrated questions
and returning them solved and lifeless 

I remember the force field of your focused fingers guiding the sparking orbit of a table saw, the electricity of your ten digits hoisting a refrigerator onto your back and the trust of climbing into a hammock you just tied up certain it was the most secure thing in all the world 

and I remember your swift palm across my cheek 
the hot sting reaching my skin before I could place its origin 
the sudden swirl of humiliation rising like haze from a bad dream

and the passenger window ripped from moms car, the stereo smashed into the bare wooden floor, the kitchen table leaping an inch off the ground to absorb the shock of your rage

I remember your one hand shaking with the effort of holding my brother still as you hit him, once he was big enough to try and fight you off

I remember you, face sunk in both hands, dry and cracked skin cupping a prayer to end the sting of failure spreading inside you, my two hands, empty of any remedy, of knowing it wasn't mine to fix, offering my heart to try and sop up your shame 

I'm often told I'm good with my hands, I don't frame out houses, or lay dry wall or re-wire living room fixtures or redo bathroom plumbing. I don't build furniture or make shelves, I like to make altars, I like to write poems on strips of handmade paper, glue them to dried flowers and place them in vases made from glass droppers of tincture bottles and perfectly smooth round stones I found by the Mississippi

I don't hit children, but last week my godson staged a protest in the middle of crossing a small sleepy street, and I felt the impulse to crush his daring assertion of power disguised in my urgency to return him safely to the sidewalk, afterwards I wished I had tried harder to talk to him before putting my hands on him

I wish you had tried a lot harder to talk to me
it can be hard to take in when you try and talk now

when the world feels like a chaos-storm of too many words no longer tethered to anything real I find myself in my hands, scrubbing, folding, chopping, digging, smoothing, wrapping, pressing, holding, and listening, my hands are re-learning how to listen