At the afternoon faculty meeting
I notice manacured nails, pink and white-tipped,
smooth hands without giant viens or white scars.
I slide my own beneath the table and examine them.

Ragged nail beds and nicked knuckles,
With these hands I have lifted heavy tobacco stalks,
thrown bags of cattle feed and held horse reins,
pushed mowers,guided tillers, manuevered rakes and mastered hoes.

My hands have carried fire wood and stoked coals.
They have cleared fields and burnt brush,
hewn trees and set fence posts,
carressed soil and nutured plants.

In them I have held dying animals,
flint rocks, wildflowers and dried coyote bones.
These hands have wiped childhood tears
and baited fishing hooks.

They have built forts and cast skipping stones,
drawn water from deep earthen wells,
pulled boats from the rivers,
fallen trees from the roads.

These hands have clasped other hands
in dances, in prayers, in chants and songs.
They have climbed cliffs, gathered buck-eyes,
cracked hickory nuts and washed cactus.

With the same hands that I have cleaned gutters,
I have pointed to stars and built ladders.
In these hands I have held my dying mother
my baby girl and my true love.

My hands have been burned and pricked,
cut and scraped, bruised and mashed.
They have been sun-damaged and torn.
Each flaw is a memory, a piece of life.

My life has never been manacured,
flawless, white and pink.
I place my hand on the table
and leave it there.