By Emily Ray
This hand is from two people, unmarried, who once held hands when walking into an adoption agency
This hand is from leaves in the fall, shivers in the snow, dirt and muck in the spring and summer.
This hand is from love—
from massaging mommy and playing Uno with dad.
This hand is from sewing with Nana and making ice cream in her driveway.
This hand is from hitting Kathryn and getting spanked as punishment.
This hand makes music.
This hand speaks.
This hand turns words into signs.
This hand is from rage; the scar on the hand proves it.
This hand holds a promise; the purity ring a symbol of my faith.
This hand has held babies, made mommy-pies,
has fought tournaments.
This hand can help, can harm, can break. This hand can touch, can feel, can comfort.
This hand has said hello and goodbye to so many people. This hand has done so much and so little.
This hand has loved and hated and bled.
This hand has been loyal
from the beginning.
This is my