These hands are weak.
They bend and flex, they slip from grip,
they pinch the tip of their Sonic straw.
They sing sonatas in the wrong key.
They rip the stories I cannot write.
They break things.
They make typos, they grab for seconds,
and cannot reach that last black key,
no matter what I coax them with to do so.
Sometimes they get so angry they leave bite marks on my palms.
They burn my toast.
They test my bathwater in the winter.
They sweep the dust off of photo albums.
They turn the lock to secret compartments.
They paint things, they mend things,
they dance on top of my classroom desk.
They know all the right spellings,
and just the right way to turn photos into pixie dust.
Sometimes they transform into swans before my very eyes.
They sing the stories I cannot tell.
They can start a revolution.
These hands are strong.
And they are yours to hold.