One day you will wash your hands
of their grip — no more grasping,
clenching, holding on
and on
and on for dear life.
Smooth out your palms in that otherworldly water
and wonder:
“And so, where did they go to,
my fists?” In Winter,
rinse them under the bathroom’s warm tap,
while in Summer dip them if you can in some cool pool
or in the salt marine green
of a sea.
A brand-nude world will meet you at your fingertips —
feel your hands heal;
feel them hale,
whole; and remember the colossal
agile whale, she whose heart is neither here nor there
and who hoards to the end
not one drop in her giant fins.
Chinaman Creek 