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 Hands September 30, 2002 The Iranian Your hands speak a secret language pure like water as ancient as faith and unknown in America. It is what my skin craves to hear promises spoken through your hands in my hair tracing my back and coming to rest in my own hands like tonight. Your hands teach, they beg and demand, celebrate joy and worry about tomorrow in their wisdom. I am only a man cursed with a man's doubts so unwillingly I must ask What brings your hands here? and what intimacies are held in them? There is so much I mistrust in all of the world, truth and love are among those victims -- but I will not hesistate when your patient hands, traveling my geometries, stop to listen for truth above my heart.
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