In its making, in its quip and rhyme, manicured or not, the hangnail enshrined—

crossed, ringed, a rabbit’s paw, solemn fingers, vowed fingers and a hand… the palm knows.

The wipe, the swipe, the curtsey or bow, followed by the hat temporarily uncapped, not for the cat,

for the divine chanteuse or the Can Can girls who flourish in their turning- into turning-into magic act—

where sawn in half is not the final curtain. Yes, this is no ha’penny or dime-store show—

but no, not these fingers, these tremulous digits that twist wires on knotty trellises—

where a rose vows thorny allegiance to presidents or kings whose generous squeezes are the rub of a nation. O

yes, the hand, the hand, the hand’s the thing, that doting underside of fatherly loving.