This tiny newborn hand
docking around one adult finger.
The colorful eye dazzler toy
meeting eyes close up
with a handful pushed to face.
Those crib sidewall handlings
beg for baby hand yoga
of approach and apply.
The ever-present pacifier
in multiple clutch-held positions.
Then onto small steady hands
of trust
confirming towards first steps,
thus squeezing towards standing
and then onto push forward.
Taking hold of the bottle,
various positions to self-feed
and the launch
of odd shaped foodstuffs
mouth-bound.
Then later in life,
grips applied to stairs, chair legs
and what curiosity soon brings.
Even later,
onto swing chains, jump ropes,
and climbing trees.
Followed up with
laces that need nimble tending,
as do buttons, zippers and snaps.
Crayons that roar out of the grab,
the hand-seize of ‘mine’ possessions,
the snatch that then leads to share,
the clench that features first fist,
the pinches and tickles
that go back and forth.
Later still,
handlebars compressed for steadied,
the pencil gripped towards legible
and the keyboard played
out of scramble into song,
and all the books
that get handled, page after page.
In a while, the shake of hands
and the snap of fingers,
the clasp of shared embrace.
With keys in hand,
then two-hand clamps
upon the steering wheel for driving,
eventually free hands that cup
at the wind in moving car.
Somewhere in this mix,
a tensioned tendering of touch,
accommodating that first kiss
and then on with kneads of skin.
To grapple with hand assistance
fumbling towards sexual presence
and then-some.
And soon the grip
that has no grasp
may come,
and when it does,
as accompaniment to orgasm,
in either gender,
it is truly, a first,
as the grip of itself
that has no mindful intent
of grasp . . .
Thus,
the grip that has no grasp . . .
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