I

When I fall asleep 

my hands leave me.



They pick up pens 

and draw creatures 

with five feathers 

on each wing.



The creatures multiply.

They say: "We are large 

like your father's 

hands."



They say: "We have 

your mother's 

knuckles."



I speak to them:

"If you are hands, 

why don't you 

touch?"



And the wings beat 

the air, clapping. 

They fly



high above elbows 

and wrists. 

They open windows 

and leave



rooms.

They perch in treetops 

and hide under bushes 

biting



their nails. "Hands," 

I call them. 

But it is fall



and all creatures 

with wings 

prepare to fly 

South.

 

II

When I sleep 

the shadows of my hands 

come to me.



They are softer than feathers 

and warm as creatures 

who have been close 

to the sun.



They say: "We are the giver," 

and tell of oranges 

growing on trees.



They say: "We are the vessel," 

and tell of journeys 

through water.



They say: "We are the cup."



And I stir in my sleep. 

Hands pull triggers 

and cut 

trees. But



the shadows of my hands 

tuck their heads 

under wings 

waiting

for morning,



when I will wake

braiding



three strands of hair

into one.