Six hands
=========

* Jack Coulehan

> I’ve never been good with them.
> 
> My scissoring leaves jagged edges.
> 
> The sensitivity of my touch
> 
> on a vein is dull, followed by
> 
> a puncture too deep or too slow.

> Like two neurotic children,
> 
> when they make a mess of a task
> 
> they invent an excuse and say
> 
> the stupid project was my idea — 
> 
> appendages are not to blame.

> I’ve never understood why they
> 
> disguise their motivation
> 
> from my brain. I imagine
> 
> handfuls of accomplishment,
> 
> but my hands do not agree.

> Twenty-seven bones, but only eight in the wrist
> 
> have proper names. Capitate, scaphoid, lunate,
> 
> trapezium. Triquetrum, trapezoid. Hamate
> 
> and pisiform. The closer to the centre you get,
> 
> the more peculiar your shape, the more respect
> 
> the authorities give you, the more a student
> 
> has to memorize your name to pass her exam.

> *This is as far as it goes,*
> 
> my first girlfriend said
> 
> and nodded to the knot
> 
> of our clasped hands.

> Fifteen, and not even
> 
> a kiss. Since then my hands
> 
> have navigated a lot
> 
> of ground — the cream,
> 
> the most enduringly
> 
> supple and enchanting
> 
> continent of which,
> 
> my heaven, is your skin.

![Figure1](http://www.cmaj.ca/https://www.cmaj.ca/content/cmaj/185/14/E698/F1.medium.gif)

[Figure1](http://www.cmaj.ca/content/185/14/E698/F1)

Image courtesy of © 2013 Thinkstock