Maria Garcia Teutsch
La Mano (The Hand)
Smooth hands are suspect.
I love the roughness of your touch,
the way your hands snag my silk blouses.
Sandpaper man, angel of the working classes,
your calluses are kisses.
I have tortilla-making hands, but don’t make them.
My fingernails have chipped red polish
from Saturday night, are cut short for typing,