Two Hands

Kim Roberts

When he raised both hands

to scratch his scalp, it looked

at first like prayer—not shackles,

not that easy way he had

of someone inured to his shackles.

The doubling of his hands

was like a double consciousness,

our visit an escape from his prison-self.

I got advance permission

for a longer visit, four hours,

since the drive took me two days

but still it was four hours

through glass, his hands

shackled for four hours. Yet still

they were graceful, still

so much his hands,

even constrained. The four hours

went more quickly than I expected,

so hungry was he for talk.

I almost forgot the glass, the guards

passing at regular intervals,

the high walls that blocked

all natural light, until he raised

both hands to scratch his head,

a simple gesture—as if

in silent, heavenly appeal.