Sylvia Wynter's Dream

Little Gremlin Hands
I remember hitting the ground as I fell,
still I never cried.
Hands covered in gravel and dirt,
like a tired construction worker.
Hands that were covered in dirt the day before –
by choice unlike today.
Hands that go through sand.
Through hair.
In Snacks.
On Books.
Hands that go in hands.
Through water.
In food.
On Pencils.
Back to the keyboard at home.
Hands that hug mother,
father,
siblings,
friends.
Hands that go in the mouth,
hands that scare.
Hands that travel everywhere.
So I remember hitting the ground as I fell,
still I never cried,
hands that get washed instead.
– Jordan Leslie