Every time I looked at a woman, I first looked at her hands.
I know that these details also strike you when you look. Always the two,
three small hairs, the short-cut nails, the curve of a finger,
a little finger. Those tiniest of features have often attracted me.
They have led me where I was also going. I saw hands lifting
a cup from a saucer, clasping a book, running through hair.
And I was never tempted by what was flawless. Time and again those
face freckles, those hairs on arms or legs, that spot that shouldn’t be there.
I know that what is mutilated also affects you, when you are in the dark.
I loved many hands, and accompanying loose hairs, hoarse voice,
squinting look. I loved those hands until they wanted to persuade me.