My good right hand has rolled the logs,
tossed the boards and climbed the tower.
My good right hand has played guitar night after night
in sadness and in ecstasy.
My good right hand has written books at the kitchen table
and poems lying in bed.
And now it does not wish to be touched,
it does not wish to be raised in the air.
It will behave under gloves with distractions,
but naked it draws the wrong kind of attention,
awareness of it’s strange distress.
My good right and has pulled the trigger,
hoisted the buck into the tree.
My good right hand has planted a garden,
and picked the apples high in the sun.
It’s carried the briefcase and the child,
and canvas water bags up the mountain.
It’s locked and unlocked a lover’s door,
painted canvases up to the ceiling.
My good right hand knows archery,
and tennis, and a sailboat’s tiller after midnight.
Now one day it’s a cream for pain,
and the next, one for arthritis.
My good right hand I’m talking to you.
Listen to me, I’m talking to you.
Intriguing turn in the last two lines. I suspect the hand might be listening, but like a very sick friend may not be able to respond.
Powerful. The litany of uses of the hand demonstrates its importance in the lifetime, contrasts with now. Elegant expression of images.