Hands

Someone has stolen my hands.

When? 

One night many years ago?

Last year?

Last night?

I must’ve closed my eyes to them 

A few years ago perhaps.

Took them for granted.

This is what happens when you look away for a second.

Whose hands are these? 

Thin wrinkled skin exposed in the harsh dissecting desk light.

Like that thin plastic bag you washed out. 

Watery from the chopped courgettes gone off.

In it too long.

Strong tendons still move to order in my grandfather’s hands.