In Capable Hands

- jan-u-wine

My hands
have learned
to be capable.

O, yes.
They know,
on their own,
now,
how to lay a fire
so it does not
unduly
smoke.

They know
how
to find
stunted things
that no one
would deem
proper food.

They know
how
to cut
a throat.

They cannot
be
my hands.

From far away,
I look at them:

They seem
so
small.

They do not want
to tend fires
or gather
sickly herbs.

They do not want
to touch
cold metal
to warm flesh.

They do not want
a bright
stain
of golden evil
to encircle
them in Darkness.

My hands.

I liked them better
when they
were
less capable.