Handed Lines

"Observe him all you want" she says,
"he won't speak."
"You can best observe his hands
from this side of the bars." She nods
before we begin descent into the dungeon.

"He had slept with the dead man's wife they say."
Her whispers echo in the stairwell.
"He prefers not to see anyone now."

*

His hands are long and slim
each knuckle, joint, and nail distinct.

Tiny contours of age circle each link.
Every brash nail leaps out,
abruptly straightens at the edges;
sticks close to the limited flesh.
Black skin clings to the exact shape of his bones
and nestles secrets you would like to know.
Black hair grow out of the ragged shirt:
anomalies in an otherwise parched land.

Upturned, the creamy palms
have deep dark wedges for lines,
as if fortune had already torched trials
of flying free
falling into darkness
before he roared out of mother's womb.

Delicate greenish-blue veins jut out,
when he shakes your hand, breaks bread
to feed a kitten.

They are not graceful.
They are hardy fingers:
having gotten down and dirty with oils, machines, jacks and wheels.

They have grasped badminton rackets, cricket bats, women's hands and hips.
They've thrown punches, driven bikes, cradled cell phones and fiddled with guitars.

His wiry fingertips chafe at the lines of his palms;
rummaging through past, escaping
the future:
but they cannot wipe out those lines
that drove him to throw a stone
at his best friend's head
in that one
slow
deathly moment
of anger.