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R. D. Roy   from the book Three Cities

  My Father's Hands


My father's hands were scarred and broken
larger than they should've been
for a wiry little man
when at rest
or wrapped around a hot cup
it often seemed they belonged
to someone else

They were a worker's hands
hands that could be trusted
passionate in their response
to every task
he asked of them

My fathers hands were tool makers
and bridge builders
both the creators
and the creation
of the industrial era

His hands shaped steel for wages
with care they handled books
They fought in the streets under banners
creating things greater than themselves
those same hands held my mother

I never saw his hands
folded in prayer
he had no time for churches
or display of piety
but kept his own counsel with God

I could find much of life
in my father's hands
the clenched fist of humanity
the open palm of friendship
the knuckles of uncertainty pressed to his forehead

I would watch my father work
but mostly I would watch his hands
It was in them
more than anywhere
where I could know the man he was