My Father’s Hands
My father’s hands were the paws of a bear Large and thick and calloused when I was young Heavy and gnarled With chunks of nails he cleaned with his pocket knife He loved to trade knives at the factory. I still have the knife as a memoriam. His bulky biceps were too large to fit cleanly in his shirts My mother would refit the sleeves and let them out And he would roll them up. When I was a child he placed his pack of cigarettes in the fold When we’d make an occasional stop at the pool hall to run the table. The bear-paw hands would work and weld and then When he came home they would begin again He washed them with lava soap and sat to eat Crackers, liver cheese and potted meat Sardines and cottage cheese Or squirrel or a fish he caught in the fork. Then the work would begin again. Building, planting, inventing, repairing. Hands that were productive He never hit me, not once. Never laid a paw on me. I remember the hands hoeing, cutting, and stripping tobacco Laying it to rest on it...
