The body’s peasant workers – hands –
daily toil in the fields of light.
They never question our wishes.
They can fail, but not misunderstand.
They are our strangeness that we are blind to.
At night they lie like maimed spiders
or star fish swept to shore. They know
about love as much as mouths and eyes.
Throughout the day, they give the mouth
its food and drink, attend to pain.
They are each other’s mirror, though
one twin is usually dominant.
When cold, they become incestuous.
They have their own language that even
those who hear know a little of.
They seek out their own kind. In public,
they are living offerings to strangers.
We turn them against
each other for the uproar of applause,
or use them to brand a cheek with
the mark of our carnality.
At other times, we rarely
notice how they move with almost
unbearable delicacy.