RULE OF THUMB
His hand, a thrust of white, a thunderclap of flesh,
sears a five star mark across her plump cheek.
Those fingers that birthed the calf, and picked
(with docile precision) the burr from the collie’s
belly, smacked a scarlet limbed tattoo onto her
cheekbone and nose.
The palms that groomed the gelding’s
dun back, and cupped slices of apple under its
muzzle, were the palms that slapped a pulsing
bougainvillea atop her bare shoulder.
Fingertips, that soothed the milk cows’ udders
with balm, and coaxed out their milk by
kneading furry ears, pinkened, with a blow, her
banded left hand.
Hands that gear engines, fuel the tanks of
hands that tinker in the bowels
of a pumping system,
or rake the straw in animal stalls,
are same hands that blood coated lips, with
knuckles, tamping her next retort.