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Lyrics
My Father's Hands
My father had so many hands. He had almost three. My father had
almost three hands but not enough to touch me once gently. O my
father had so many eyes. He had so many blue eyes. He had almost
three. But not enough to see me once perfectly. O my father had
but one mouth and one heart to lift those bales and bales at the
factory. O my poor father of fists and fists and fists beating on
the wall, beating at his brow, beating at his children. My poor
factory father, lined and fat-bellied now, tranquillized and
happier, made smaller by so many sons. The winds gave him only
one heart and they said, "Here, spin it, make it the hole in rock
we whistle shrill through. Grit your teeth and count your
children." He wonders what to do with hands now. Where to put
them. These tender lined things that ache for sons. O my father
we are here, the prints of wanting emblazoned on us like
radioactive brands. O my father had so many hands and he waves
them now ashamed a little. Looking puzzled as we leave at the
movement from his wrist as if he wondered, "What are they when
they are not fists?"
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