Calloused Hands

The first thing I notice about a woman are her hands 

delicate and slender, 

manicured and picturesque, 

gritty and rough, like sandpaper 

all dictating lines of work 

class and privilege— 

even sexual proclivity  

Her hands, my god, 

her hands, 

are unlike any I have lusted after 

alligator tough,  

weathered and rugged, 

oil stained and scarred, 

calloused from hard work 

that sounds a lot like work, real work 

gripping shovels, weed whackers, 

chainsaws and heavy equipment 

‘gotta be 10% smarter than the shit you’re working with 

sweating in the summer sun, 

wrenching on airplanes, 

or belly-deep in the bones of an old truck 

yelling at stubborn bolts and rivets 

come on, you whore, come loose 

Her hands can fix anything 

stronger grip force than most men 

just ‘gotta stick your tongue out right 

or find a bigger wrench 

the way she owns 

her domain in a hardware store 

that butch girl saunter, swagger 

shoulders pulled wide, standing tall, 

knowing she knows what she knows 

oozing confidence 

walking around an invisible 10-inch dick 

Her hands remind me that  

I have never been loved like this before 

the way she uses them to 

nurture and support me,  

the way she problem solves 

every emergency, 

hands first, questions later 

My god, her hands 

are healing sites 

trace your fingers down my spine  

give me goose flesh 

wrap your hands around my throat 

squeeze that sweet spot on my hip 

just imagine what those hands can do…