Hands

    When I fall asleep

    my hands leave me.

    They pick up pens

    and draw creatures

    with five feathers

    on each wing.

    The creatures multiply.

    They say： "We are large

    like your father's

    hands."

    They say： "We have

    your mother's

    knuckles."

    I speak to them：

    "If you are hands，

    why don't you

    touch？"

    And the wings beat

    the air， clapping.

    They fly

    high above elbows

    and wrists.

    They open windows

    and leave

    rooms.

    They perch in treetops

    and hide under bushes

    biting

    their nails. "Hands，"

    I call them.

    But it is fall

    and all creatures

    with wings

    prepare to fly

    South.

    II

    When I sleep

    the shadows of my hands

    come to me.

    They are softer than feathers

    and warm as creatures

    who have been close

    to the sun.

    They say： "We are the giver，"

    and tell of oranges

    growing on trees.

    They say： "We are the vessel，"

    and tell of journeys

    through water.

    They say： "We are the cup."

    And I stir in my sleep.

    Hands pull triggers

    and cut

    trees. But

    the shadows of my hands

    tuck their heads

    under wings

    waiting

    for morning，

    when I will wake

    braiding

    three strands of hair

    into one.