A treat of poetry: Hands by Siv Cedering

I

When I fall asleep
my hands leave me.
They pick up pens
and draw creatures
with five feathers
on each wing.

The creatures multiply.
They say: "We are large
like your father's
hands."

They say: "We have
your mother's
knuckles."

I speak to them:
"If you are hands,
why don't you
touch?"

And the wings beat
the air, clapping.
They fly
high above elbows
and wrists.
They open windows
and leave
rooms.

They perch in treetops
and hide under bushes
biting
their nails. "Hands,"

I call them.
But it is fall

and all creatures
with wings

prepare to fly
South.

II

When I sleep
the shadows of my hands
come to me.

They are softer than feathers
and warm as creatures
who have been close
to the sun.

They say: "We are the giver,"
and tell of oranges
growing on trees.

They say: "We are the vessel,"
and tell of journeys
through water.

They say: "We are the cup."

And I stir in my sleep.

Hands pull triggers
and cut
trees. But

the shadows of my hands
tuck their heads
under wings

waiting
for morning,
when I will wake

braiding
three strands of hair
into one.