Hands burled and knobby, I tuck them
against my body, let tremors run
from shoulder blade to fingertip.Tension
burns the same track of muscles, pencil slows
across blue-lined paper,words scratch
like sandpiper tracks at low tide.
Kids call cripple. Bank tellers stare silent.
Doctors predict arthritis. Joints crack
in the vise grip: my hands want
to learn to swear.
Late at night
as I trace the long curve of your body,
tremors touch skin, reach inside,
and I expect to be taunted, only to have you
rise beneath my hands, ask for more.
everyday encounters
written 1992
Eli Clare