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My Hand The one I write with, wipe with, eat with, thumbed rides, smoked, saluted (in greeting and fun, not in the military) with, shake, throw, reach, point, pull up my zipper with. Hand of the whoa sign, peace sign, middle finger, hand I swear with, hand of my talking gestures cords of rigid scar snake up pinky and ring finger, aftermath of Duypreton's Contracture, tissue braided like rope pulling fingers into a fist hand I hit with (if I ever hit anyone) until excavated, removed then closed: one hundred something stitches leaving the third finger, ringless like the rest, a bridge. Now in my left palm tissue braids a cable torquing the ring finger peaked like a roof. Let it go. Beckett did. About Reagan and Thatcher, who share the affliction, I donít know. Duypreton himself acted on his coachman in whose two hands he discovered the condition. Scalpel across both palms severed his tightening tissue and the hands, no longer his to command, collapsed like puppets. Not that I can do as I please with mine, lifeline trespassed, sore after light work, hard to warm in winter and stiff every morning, The hand I wave goodbye with.