His Hands

Once smooth, fragile, unscathed


His hands, twin workers, met splinters

and splints

wringed necks in winters

and gripped hilts of silver blades,


the stuff of nightmares that spring.

They found books,

tore so delicately the thin pages

of psalms

as his palms searched bibles for passages


bandages that heal and bind.

His left -

Un-shivering shield

His right, blistering fire

it wields

until finally both knights are met together

in solemn embrace -

two halves, slices of one whole,

praying to whatever God created them.