M.P. Powers

my father’s hands

there is nothing delicate
nothing of the luna moth
or geisha
in a japanese tea ceremony
about my father’s poor
hands

they are large and unruly hands
and I can see them
sometimes casting shadows
on my bedroom walls at night

my father’s hands
with their thick and twisted
octogenarian
fingers often panic
when trying to answer
his smartphone hammering the screen
swiping it poking it jabbing it
to no avail
the caller has hung up

my father’s hands
seem to be disconnected
from the rest
of him and are no more 
of the luna moth
when opening cans or closing
cabinet
doors than they are handing pots
and pans or washing 
themselves

anyway
I once had this dream
that my father’s hands 
were evolving in reverse
growing knotted coarse-haired
and finally powerful 
enough to crush 
a honeydew melon 
in one squeeze 

a feat for even 
a neanderthal