These are my hands

These are my hands father,
I can hold them before you.
I can press my palm to your own

but only in my mind.

I have come here often
searching for you, torn with want.

I want you to be here.

I need you to be here.

I need you to be

These are my hands, father.
Not so strong as yours.
They craft and fashion this poor substitute
for you.


There are fingers on each hand
and I have counted them over and
over again. Their number
does not change.

I will tell you a secret:

they do not number even near
the times I have tried to write this pain.
Even were I to take your hands
within my own, and count
again, again

again.

So I take these hands,
these hands that have known you
only in reflection

and I write
one word after another
as though I were committing fingerprints
to mind.

These are my hands.


-LAP 03/06/06-