my hands grip each other tightly, 
fingers interlocked, thumbs folded over each other. 
Sometimes 
my hands are clasped, 
a hollow space 
between them, 
at the ready like a cheer captain. Sometimes 
my hands stand tall and flat, pressed together, swishing 
back and forth like a fish’s tail, resting against my bowed forehead. 
But sometimes when I pray, 
my hands wipe tears, smooth hair out of eyes, deliver a meal 
to someone’s doorstep. Sometimes my hands slam
against the table, click across a keyboard, write desperate 
emails to my elected officials, imploring—no, begging—them to vote 
for common sense gun reforms. My hands pour 
steaming coffee into a mug, shape cookie dough into sticky balls 
on a baking sheet, sign a check in bright ink, affix a stamp to an envelope, 
string together a poem. My hands reach out to a stranger, 
wave to another driver to go first, 
pull weeds from the flower beds, 
cut pink peonies 
and arrange them in an old jar. My hands poke seeds 
into the dirt, refill the watering can 
each day, 
push me up off my knees
and into the world.

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