Making Things - Day 31 - Sara Dowse

At the Brezel Bar in Manly

upmarket bakery whose specialty

is pretzels I held out my hand.

The woman at my table – grey-haired

neatly cropped, blue-eyed,

remarked on my girdle of Venus

and the shortness of my fingers

in relation to my palm.

Practical, she said, though I was sure

she meant peasant, which is what

I’d always suspected – no aesthete me

nor even a skerrick of refinement,

a fire hand is what I have, which means

emotionally intelligent and surprise!

a tendency to manipulate.

Manipulate.  Now there’s a word.

How did it get to be derogatory?

thought I, munching on my pretzel,

pondering hot dogs as I did so

like those they sold on Coney Island,

under the Ferris wheel, next to

that creaking roller coaster.

It used to mean skill,

from the Latin for handful

and I believe in skill as I believe

in hands, more specifically,

in making things, I’m truly

in awe of making things,

and fixing things,

above all, with one’s hands.

We’ve lost that, maybe forever,

the wily machines we’ve made

will soon be taking over,

baking bread and pretzels without us.

It’s all in the head now,

bugger the fingers, the fiery palm

the touch of a calloused hand.