You are the hands I watched turn
day after day, year after year
as if the movement of my being
relied on their rotation, and I was
nothing without you to tell me I existed
in this point in time, at this place
performing any particular job or task.
I despise you. I keep you
in my coffin of a jewelry box
to remind me not to care so much
about things that look alive
and helpful, hold me captivated,
but really only clasp
around my wrist like a hand cuff.
Anita Stienstra
