for J.
No, not the terminal section of bird
wing, nor ape’s hind foot, crustacean’s chela,
single flower group’s banana cluster,
branched rootstock of ginger, not some yellow-
tan bunch of tobacco leaves, nor pointers
of clocks—all these terms referred to as hands—
these intricate human organs incurred
every day with grasps, shakes, high fives as grand
as winning, low fives as cool as wit—not
even these gestures, grace and gratitude
expressed in tactile sense, measure a jot,
or so it seems, to calm cure you exude
when you touch and hold my fingers in yours,
gently gripping bicep, rubbing shoulder.
Roger Armbrust
December 21, 2007
