An earthy terrain

with sparse trees of hair.

Each peninsula

has at its base a

mountain – there are five.

Beneath the surface,

rivers make blue trails.

On the underside,

the ridges form a

map of altitude.

And yet, each schoolchild

knows this land. They have

traced its shape: a plump

Thanksgiving turkey.

One head, four feathers

splayed – a prideful pose.

Add light and shadow

and it becomes a

rabbit or a dog.

This hand, indeed, can


Clenched into a ball,

my hand’s a weapon

after school. Yet with

it open I can

greet family or

friends. A changing shape,

quite ethically

ambiguous, my

hand is a shaper

of who I could be.


2 thoughts on “Hand

  1. Thanks, man. This was a poem I wrote for my class about an everyday object. I didn’t like it so much, but my teacher did and two people have voted it excellent, so maybe I just don’t know how to critique my own poems. 🙂

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