Drunk Hands (live reading) I look at my hands, the hands of my mother, it happened one day suddenly, the soft shapeless hands, morphed into hers, but somehow still on my arms, I look at my hands, my fathers thick short nails, sandpaper for skin, thick worn fingers, widened by labour and time, numbed by design. I look at my hands, I see the things these hands have done, the gestures, signals to communicate, the things they’ve built, crafted, broken, the surfaces they have touched, skin, grass, sand, water, air, I see the position they hold over me, In constant view, of constant necessity, I’ve felt them before, as if not mine, I felt them fail and decline, i feel them like they are larger than the sun, larger than everyone, I've seen them shake, I've hid within them, I’ve crossed them behind my childhood back, I’ve watched them attack, as if not part of me, their idol wandering, disappointingly, part of my intimacy, stuck out on a limb, Translating for me.