Hands

I don’t know what it is about my hands
that makes them hunt like wolves each time I dream.
They gorge themselves on insubstantial air
while you, in sheepish pelt, stand silently;
tell tales in finger snaps of fallen fruit
and men on whom you’ve squandered mother’s love.
I don’t know what it is about your hands
that makes their shadow puppets come to life;
the frightened fox with thunder in his heart,
the unseen peacock laying dead, the roots
of trees, worm-filled in your vision of love
with my dark failure frozen in your eye.
My ape-like hands just fumble with the air
while yours distil it and the world recedes
as all your grief and falling tears become
the spring-blown blossom of a cherry tree.
We shade our eyes, both startled by the light
and then I feel you place your hand in mine.