They say
hands divulge
through anatomy
what is kept in check
by gestures.

I admit
being envious
of the straight-boned
salute of men in arms,
of the hard-knuckled

fist that boxers use
to bring out stars
from blackened eyes,
of the waxen beauties
in nail polish ads.

I stuff mine
safely inside pockets
every time someone
attempts to sell me
vacuums or encyclopedias.

Caught in cloth,
my fingertips
remain bent backward
like heads of palm trees
twisted by storms.

They say
my phalanges are worms
for early beaks of salesmen.
I do wish my front door
isn’t so easily pushed open.

Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy as a freelance translator and web designer. She also edits the Italian Niederngasse. Her poetry has recently appeared in Poet’s Canvas, Scrivener’s Pen, Eclectica, Tryst and three candles. Recent awards include: Absinthe Literary Review 2002 Eros & Thanatos Prize Winner and Clean Sheets 2003 Poetry Contest 2nd Place Winner. She is the featured author in the May 2003 issue of Epiphany Magazine.