When we are very, very, very small,

they put our hands into soft mitts to keep

them from going into our mouth and

into our eyes. We bat blindly at the world

in an attempt to sign something of great

importance to us. We do not aim to offend

with our tiny, muffled hands mumbling now.

 

They don’t understand us.

This is not what we meant at all.

 

When we are very, very small, they clip

our nails when we tap at our temples,

the thin bloody lines indicators of at least

shallow thought processes. We cannot but help

to scratch our bald heads at what we’ve seen

of this world already. We cannot put our fingers

on it. Hands taking from other hands the ability

to touch, to feel, to process, to do better.

 

Slivers of nail, frail but sharp are swept away

from our smooth chests and onto the floor.

The tips of our fingers now harmless nubs to handle

the simple tools of being a child. Our day work.

 

We are not allowed to protest this.

We don’t stand on the line. We do not picket.

 

When we are small, we are allowed to keep

them if the beds are clean. If we push back

the cuticles and we promise not to rip or tear

them, we hold our hands up to the sun

and our fingers become tools of the trade.

 

You cannot remove the scabs of day work

without these. You can only poke at what hurts.

 

A man is often judged by how he keeps his nails.

We cradle the clippings in our palms. To protect them,

we often sign in a language comprised of closed fists

raised and shaking. We stand upon a platform, one

hand raised in a fist. We mean to tell you:

 

“Take these.

They are causing confusion.”

 

Without them, every subject becomes a door jamb.

The corner of a counter you know juts out from the wall.

At night, nothing that would cause you to stumble

is appreciative of the blunt objects use to probe the dark.

 

We turn on a light and we scratch our heads.

Our hair eventually thins out and our bodies go soft.

Whiskers and nails continue to the end of a life,

both are cut or clipped away. We try to be tidy.

 

When we make a point, there is a chance

we might scratch. This is not what we mean.