Handsome hand doctor William King gave me a cortisone shot that did not (really) work so I asked strangers on Nextdoor for hand therapists and four recommended Lang Hand Therapy 72nd and West End. A 40 year practice. Ann Lang passed on her business to her daughter Audrey.
I have trouble trusting hand-some doctors. One gorgeous Italian doctor (the accent was an important part of his beauty) said these small surgeries on my scalp (to take out several tiny cysts) would not, "oh no, not" hurt. (They were KILLING, for weeks.) Now I never trust a hand-some doctor, although I have to admit, my orthopedist who I like is quite lovely, and he is attentive and sweet. In Spanish a handsome man is sometimes called "un mango."
My hand surgeon is a poem.
A saga if we count his team.
They put my wrist back together like nothing ever happened, but now I count every step on the stairs.
I hope Audrey helps you!
Here goes:
Monster Mash
She talks with those hands and coffee cups
flips them up
to stop us. Wait!
Then she opens them up a pluck
like a book just right
or a butterfly's back
Cortisone never works....that alone, if well-expressed in a poem, would constitute a great service to humanity.
And for photos of hands, see David Bacon's photos of farmworkers: https://exhibits.stanford.edu/bacon/catalog?exhibit_id=bacon&search_field=search&q=hands
My Father: A Handbook
His nails were ribbed like corduroy—
thick and tough, you could hear them
fight back against the metal
that clipped to keep them in check.
The fingers were stout
but they could deftly place
a disc of aspirin precisely
on the back of my tongue.
The top of each finger was tufted
just past the knuckle
to remind you here was a man,
though he held no big stick.
Rather, he held a red bassoon
and could tickle a trill
or call forth the growl of the grandfather
in Peter and the Wolf.
The making of reeds was a delicate craft
that obsessed his sharp mind:
he would calculate, carve and scrape
to create the odd objects that emitted the notes.
In the summer he held the steering wheel
for the long drives to the country,
where he’d play handball against the wall
or teach a tactical grip on a ping pong paddle.
The kitchen was the one place
his hands never served him,
for he preferred to be served
his dinner on the table.
Those hands perfected the ill-conceived art of
pulling a cigarette to his mouth—
how many sticks of practice it must have taken!
I held those hands the day he died.
Ogden Nash was wont to tease.
“I test my bath before I sit,
And I’m always moved to wonderment
That what chills the finger not a bit
Is so frigid upon the fundament.”
Here Edward Wilson gets figital, though most finger poems are digital.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=34190
Hand poems are way too wavy.
Sotheby's once had an exhibit--norhing but photographs of hands. I had to get the catalog.
Cocteau's were the best.
I have trouble trusting hand-some doctors. One gorgeous Italian doctor (the accent was an important part of his beauty) said these small surgeries on my scalp (to take out several tiny cysts) would not, "oh no, not" hurt. (They were KILLING, for weeks.) Now I never trust a hand-some doctor, although I have to admit, my orthopedist who I like is quite lovely, and he is attentive and sweet. In Spanish a handsome man is sometimes called "un mango."
un mango!!!
oooh, I love hands, just love hands. Have written several hand poems. Can I post one here, Esther?
yes!!!!