by John A. Nieves
Not just my fingers, but my whole hand made
this: the curve of my palm, the base
of my wrist. Here is how a hand bends
light. Here is how it words. Your fingers
stretch to shadow the wall. Here is where
you pressed a bruise once. Here, below
your fingers, is where you cradled a plum. See
how your knuckles shine like they would never
punch anyone. Mine are darker and have been
maybe swung too much decades ago. And here
is where your vein crosses your heart-
line. They will never meet. Here is the heel
of my palm and it wants to press softly
that spot. It wants to know how texture can be
a name, to share enough pressure to still
be gentle, but lend a little heat—one thing
that is sure evidence of all the lightning
firing beneath. Here is a dream of knowing
that only hands can have. Here is how my hands
dream it.
John A. Nieves’ poems appear in journals such as: Iowa Review, American Poetry Review, Alaska Quarterly Review and 32 Poems. A 2025 Pushcart Prize winner, his first book, Curio, won the Elixir Press Annual Judges Prize. He’s an Associate Professor at Salisbury University and an editor of The Shore Poetry.
