He turns the boy’s hand
back and over feeling each
joint and bone. More useful than an x-ray.
Only hands can fix hands the way diamonds
can cut diamonds. He holds the thumb
affectionately, the ugly cousin, stumpy and awkward.
Yet indispensable in its opposition. But he loves all the digits
and the way that hands, like Swiss army knives, spring
tools for screwing, scratching, sensing. Tacked
on the wall there is a photograph, surrounded
by his framed degrees — a pudgy toddler’s hand
waving in the sun, scarred
but whole. Thanking, without
words, as only a hand can.