His Own Hand

Abstract

i. What the Right Hand IsTake my right hand—the index finger crookedfrom a long-forgotten break; the dintwhere a melon spoon of cells, precancerous,has been scooped out; the little crescentmoons under each nail, the nails badly bitten;the worn-out cartilage at the base of the thumbthat ruins my grip and sometimes sleep, when boneof metacarpal scrapes trapezium:it's an old hand, but take it, and allit screwed in or up, hammered or caressed,lines botched, weeds pulled, promises kept. Small-time doer even when it does its best,it is doubled in yours, and fear is halvedof age manhandling our kind and loving craft.ii. What the Left Hand DoesAge manhandles my kind and loving craft.Item: My left is acting on its own.Example: As I proof a poem online,it hovers over the keys, then slowlydescends, wrist relaxes, a fingertipdrops, depressing almost always a d or t,plosive consonants that blow up the wordthey land on, bomblets from a passing plane.This is not how I pictured my later years,worried about an errant hand. Item:When I pass my cluttered desk, how oftenit drags off a tottering book or stack of papers.The left thumb became arthritic first:that hand lifts and grasps, the doctor said,its partner finesses. Right has beenthe writer since I was young, Leftthe written on. At ballgames, the rightgoes over the heart, the left dangles. Rightthrows, Left wears a glove to catch.Dexter acts, Sinister suffers. Item:The right waves happily as a child departs,the left clasps the back of the neck in grief.iii. ProdigalHe first clasped the neck of his son in joy,not grief—the aging father in Rembrandt'sReturn—then the shoulder and back of his boykneeling, one shoe off, one on. The large handon our right, Father's left hand, is the roughenedhand of clenching and judging, the peasant'swho handed his queen, unwomaned, a gift of snakes.The hand on our left, smaller for pity's sake,is feminine and soothing, made to caress.The big hand is grasping the shoulder in fearhe will lose the boy again; more hopeful, gentler,the other touches him with lovingkindness.Return again and be Our sons and daughters,Yahweh pleads, Return: We will be Fatherand Mother. Prodigal says, I am a man:look at these scars on my hand.iv. Fingers Look at the scars on my handand on my fingers, clumsy clawsthat are fat and short, rawsausages, not digits—spillers,knockers over, arthritic grippers,nailhead missers and thread strippers,packaging grapplers, tyers of shoesthat won't stay tied, slappersof skeeters, swatters of flies,typo makers, smearers, droppersof eggs and messy breakables,pimple-, bubble-, button poppers,filchers of river-rounded pebblesfor garden paths, china breakersand rim chippers, crystal-crackers(they've cost me dearly), rock skippers,just once (I swear) bird flippers,zipper-downers and zipper-uppers,and takers of the Lord's Supper.Often, too often, have they failed me—look at the piles of scribbled verse—but did not punch or thieve or worse,or do much shameful or barbarous,unlike the fingers Rodin sculptedbristling and lurking in the dark,that (wrote Rilke) seemed to barklike the five throats of Cerberus.