how to slip a thumb into your mouth and taste it all, didn’t you sing out their ninety-nine names—, when you have come to me, and I have returned you, to that from which you came—bright mud, mineral-salt—, Why I Don’t Mention Flowers When Conversations with My Brother Reach Uncomfortable Silences. These hands have done so much in my life. of your thighs, broke you to wine, to ichor, Haven’t they riveted your wrists, haven’t they. When these hands are no longer as strong as they once were, Any election results reported on November 3rd will be incomplete and inaccurate. These hands, if not gods, then whywhen you have come to me, and I have returned youto that from which you came—bright mud, mineral-salt—why then do you whisper O, my Hecatonchire. The Foreword to These are the Hands is by Michael Rosen, well-known writer, broadcaster and poet, whose own poem, written for the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the NHS, gives the anthology its title. Used with permission of the author. These are the hands That tap your back Test the skin Hold your arm Wheel the bin Change the bulb Fix the drip Pour the jug Replace your hip. They have seen me through both joy and strife. I have gazed the black flower bloomingher animal eye. These are the hands - by Michael Rosen, poem read by Sophie Raworth BBC presenter Sophie Raworth reads These Are The Hands by Michael Rosen. What is there to say to a manwho has traversed such a world,whose hands and eyes havebetrayed him? atlas of bone, fields of muscle,one breast a fig tree, the other a nightingale,both Morning and Evening. When the eyes and lips are touched with honeywhat is seen and said will never be the same. Have they not burnedon the altar of your belly, eaten the breadof your thighs, broke you to wine, to ichor,to nectareous feast? —Wisława Szymborska. This content was created by a Daily Kos Community member. They've traveled far and wide with you, standing  by my side. Atman. These hands, if not gods, then why when you have come to me, and I have returned you to that from which you came—bright mud, mineral-salt— why then do you whisper O, my Hecatonchire. "The images and hands of this poem began building during Mass one Sunday. And when these hands touched your throat. Like Jacob’s angel, I touched the garnet of her wrist,and she knew my name. We must have accurate and complete results. These hands have hugged children in distraught or in pain, He describes the contributors as revealing ‘the hidden places of their minds in these intimate moments’ of clinical and workplace encounters. These are the hands That fill the bath Mop the floor Flick the switch Soothe the sore Burn the swabs Give us a jab Throw out sharps And when these hands touched your throat,showed you how to take the apple and the rib,how to slip a thumb into your mouth and taste it all,didn’t you sing out their ninety-nine names—.