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These Hands

The Healer

Clare is the healer.
she presses,
stretches,
moves
the skin,
holding back
and pushing down,
feeling the response
and
deepening.
she’s the connection,
her hands
the link to her
power to heal,
she talks with her hands
to be understood.

words by Callie Beuermann

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These Hands

The Individual

Mary is the individual.
with hands that split across
the top
like her mother’s,
with hands that remember
the welts blooming
after days making hay,
and digging up turnips as
the light fades and the frost
creeps in,
with hands that know a hot country
and the sun marks
as proof,
with hands that write
so that everything has a place,
with hands and joints
that ease as
warm water flows over
them—
with hands that write,
that advocate,
that connect,
that support,
that feel.

words by Callie Beuermann

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These Hands

The Mentor

Jim is the mentor.
training vines
driving tractors
lifting stones
killing weeds
building fences,
all to be on the land
balancing the mind and
the hands.
all to read and learn even more,
to tackle a jungle of blackberries
and to clasp his hands together
with his many worlds,
all to teach and 
mentor and
grow
the art.

words by Callie Beuermann

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These Hands

The Maker

Susie is the maker.

with fixing hands on

the black dirt cotton farm—

with hands that row

and calluses that

form and heal

over and over—

with hands like spiders

over a keyboard—

with hands that

move by themselves,

moulding and shaping and creating

clay and glass and jewellery,

gentle with patience

kept safe for them

to make.

words by Callie Beuermann

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These Hands

Love

Chris is love.
she’s three or four years old,
next to her sister—eight or nine,
in clothes made by their mum,
smiles and love.
she sees the nooks and crannies
of her hands
as an expression of love—
hands in the cats’ fur,
giving hugs,
holding people,
memories of the keys of a piano,
sowing the seeds of a garden.

words by Callie Beuermann