7. Hands

for some reason are battered and speckled,
the claws of an old hen poke through the skin.
I stare at my hands the way Escher
makes you stare at his. The incredible detail.
The scar from the barnacles at Kiama,
the red mark from where I wedged my hand
between the wheelbarrow and the wall, bringing in
the topsoil. Fishing scars. Liver spots.

In certain places, the skin
crumbling or flaking, the uncanny way
my palms are thirty years old
but the backs of my hands are fifty.
They're strong, damaged,
to hide or write with.