I slip through the

sterile halls

floors shiny with the

flimsy motion sensor lights left on at night

stuff my fists into the pockets of scrubs to

hide the shaking

to have them held, not holding, for once

 

these hands that peel

at the seams of my fingernails

little cuts from yesterday’s cooking all red

and aching from disinfectant

 

these hands that did not hesitate

as I brushed a patients hair behind

her ear to make sure it didn’t get caught

in the oxygen mask

 

hands that did not startle

when grabbed as I was about turn around,

silent plea of ‘don’t leave me’

but slowly thumbed a circle

of reassurance as I pulled away

 

hands that clean stains like memories

brush skin and plastic and metal

and pet wrinkles out of linen cloth

 

hands still in my pockets, shaking,

shaking now,

 

hands that, earlier, closed gently

over a shivering bird and

set it on the windowsill

raised in quiet awe as it flew away

 

hands that smashed into the break room wall,

smearing meal moth guts and

wing powder all across

the white paint

 

my hands do so much and I

only ever realize

when they are shaking in my pockets

at the end of my shift.