Piano Hands
by Tinamarie Peabody

Before I understood my father,
I understood his hands.

They were working hands-

Hands that fixed bikes,
But more often drove cars for strangers
And calculated monthly bills.

They were anxious hands even in rest-

Hands holding a cigarette,
Hands snuffing it out,
Hands brought to a nail-gnawing mouth,
Hands never idle.

My father, he used to pretend to be Billy Joel,
Tapping those hands to an invisible piano,

But even then I knew
He didn’t have piano hands-

They were too thick-

Thick like wax consumed by a long burning flame
Then cooled into misshapen lumps,

Thick so that you thought they might burst,
Split under the pressure like overcooked hotdogs.

But mostly I understood that golden ring

So tight it raised mountains on either side-
So tight it seemed to sink under my father’s skin,
So tight it was as if the ring chose him
And was clinging to its prize.

It was the gold, I thought, which created all that pressure-
It was the gold that stole my father’s piano hands.

© 2007 prickofthespindle.com