No Man’s Hands, They Said
Published in
1 min readSep 19, 2019
My hands are softer than a maiden’s
Silken paddles for your caress
They always lived above ground, in clean air
Loam, mud, dirt and bog does not gather here
They are not coarsened by spades and shovels
Or even long days lugging bricks on various sites
Man’s things often gather crusts of roughness
For a body to survive Saturn’s dull ache
Yet there are no cracks from labour here
No filaments in palm-read lines
No calluses or patches of worn skin
These hands are as God intended
Envious men chide them, envious women adore them
They are not cast out hands, fallen hands, cursed hands
They are Eve without the pain of childbirth
How do I know? That’s simple
Your body loves their touch
© simon heathcote
