Poetry,  Published Submissions

Pygmalion, Sculpting, by Shel Zhou

my hands are the rich earth of the riverbank
beneath the bridge leading to the park;
they are not nor deserve to be bedecked in stars
or golden sheen,
like your ephemeral phalanges.
they are muddied, soiled,
the hands of a devoted daughter,
a tenacious student,
a tireless companion,
a painstaking worker.
they bear the marks of labor,
they are muddied and soiled.

 

my hands are adept and ever-flitting,
like the wings of a hummingbird,
in frantic motion—
a restless mover, a mangrove tree,
fat and unanchored.
hers are calm, resolute, moving with
the dignity of years beyond your age,
while mine?
they are the swift digits of a pianist,
a calculated chess player,
an exhausted artist,
a Sisyphean scribbler—
they are muddied and soiled.

 

should I have a tail, it would
flick to and fro like a reed,
or perhaps echo
the quiet observance of a feline predator.
I fix my gaze on the hands of my
tireless Chinese mother, kneading dough for
mantou and jiaozi, a familiarity
of sweat replacing tears that
i am old enough to understand
is an ache, hiraeth, for her mother
woven through years of hardship
spat upon by this country.

 

I turn my attention to Elio’s hands—
frail, translucent, bony, cold to the touch.
these are hands that millions mourn for,
once cradling promise,
perhaps the hands of a healer or a father.
my heart jumps in pain, sharp and piercing
when I held your icy hand
once curved with warmth, once free of monitors
and analyses.
these are hands that make a person grieve.

 

I poke and prod at a new set of digits—
I am seven, marveling those
tiny, chubby forms,
round as sausages,
with perfect pearls of fingernails; I glide
my own small tapers over the smooth
ridges of my baby brother’s,
discovering for the first time
a desire to protect.

 

your hands, too, are different—
they are the hands of an artisan, a musician,
clay-spattered, the habitual deification of creation
spun upon the wheel,
a globe turning, turning,
until I am dizzy, dizzy,
then it all stills, leaving us,
nothing between us but our mingling breath.
they are the hands I brush with reverence,
longing for their touch, moved to tears
by the sonata of their sensation.

 

I wonder, what do my hands reveal?
wild girl, dirty and foolish,
rushing through sandboxes, muddy banks,
and garden dirt;
foolish girl, stupid and weak,
hiding in shadows, trembling, or is that the walls?
a sinner and a jester, the family name
tainted in one fell swoop.
my hands are muddied and soiled—

 

how will you perceive them
when they are cleansed in the gaze of divinity,
baptized in sorrow and years of pain,
mud shed and laid bare?
will they splay across the stars, etch with calloused
fingertips, my name into history?
what will my hands say about me?

– Shel Zhou

Shel Zhou is a high school senior and writer from the midwest. Her work, exploring themes of identity and human condition, has been published in literary magazines like Harmony Literary Magazine. They edit for the Young Global Scientists Research Journal and run the Inkbloom Literary Review. Shel also co-hosts the mental health podcast @the.hummingbird.campaign and is passionate about LGBTQ+ advocacy and healthcare reform. She enjoys watercolor painting, classical music, and organizing community events.