His hands are large.
Large like a baseball mitt
ready for that curveball
that he knows is coming
but still, always surprises him.
His hands are large like that.
His hands are soft.
Not soft like velvet or cashmere.
not at all from this world of hard knocks,
rough edges and shattered dreams.
Soft like the folding of galaxies into galaxies into galaxies
into fetus that gets to this Earth in a bang wrapped in soft.
His hands are soft like that.
His hands are mysterious,
They hold mysteries
like heads hold exponentially popping
kernels of thoughts;
like arms hold hope hoping
love’s embrace will crawl into them.
His hands hold secrets,
answers to unspoken prayers and
questions to answers that make no difference
in explaining how his hands mysteriously wrap around
wound still bleeding from that last shot fired that landed
right in the middle of the bullseye on my heart.
His hands mysteriously hide wonders
in plain sight and with a wave,
make my night terrors disappear.
His hands are mysterious like that.
~ Anasuya 1/16/17