My Father’s Hands

He has always been a timid
man, but the type that never
wants to show it. He's afraid
of fireworks yet takes the fire-
cracker he's offered on New 
Year's eve, holds a lighter
to the wick and tosses it as far
as he can into the yard. Having
done so, he retreats into the house
to down a glass of 7Up. All around
is a chaos of pops and explosions. 
Judas belts and Catherine-wheels.
Someone firing blanks (we hope)
into the air. He has never held
nor owned a gun. Barely out of
his teens, during the war an enemy
soldier plucks the nail out of his
little finger. He never likes 
to recount the white-hot pain,
the doubling over. As an older
adult, he goes to a barbershop
where they also trim clients'
nails. Straight across; just
a hint of clear polish.