Your hands, Doctor,
healing hands that reassure
even with a cold touch, hands
that move my lips apart with latex
softness, a guerrilla in the jungle
parting leaves to spot the enemy.
Your hands, Doctor,
heavy hands that I remember as
your face remains veiled in smoke,
the hands that gave me polio vaccine
like a secular Eucharist, a pink blob on
a sugar lump placed gently on my tongue.
Your hands Doctor,
loving hands of my Doctor,
innocent of medicine but expert now in
my mature topography, hands that
probe my depths so that together
we may scale the heights.
