Writer's Hands

Thin bones pointing at the lines on the page—

Cursors underlining, tapping, grasping the ideas under them

In black ink, stamped onto the paper leaf,

Wrinkling

     Crinkling

          Snapping between flicking fingernails,

Whirling in the air that lifts and drops them.

The right one is calloused;

The bump on the empty ring finger protrudes,

Betraying the hands that work in secret.

The fat knuckles stick out round on the twigs

Extending from the palm,

Knots that crack and creak when moving,

Breaking free from the stiffness

Of the crooked, cramped hooks

Grasping the pen.

The tendons glide under the thin sheet of ivory

Like player piano keys

Working automatic,

Merely reacting to the mind,

The soul, heart, dictating while the nerves record

Fiction

     Memoirs

          Fragments of thought

Onto a dirty scrap for preservation.

Blue swirls

Curls

Rivers of hot ink run under the flesh;

Circulation for circulation.

A new color stains the page when the hand is raw.