When Again I Feel My Hands My wooden hands hang idle on the strings. Master’s drunk on Holland gin & sleeps beside the wench who takes my place. Half human, half wood, in a world deprived of joy, I am the fool’s scepter, a reprieve from tedium, my simple plays enhanced by classical compositions. You cannot know how dear the price of mirth. With his dark eyes, he wooed me & with his magic, he prevailed. Father swore, mother wept as he swept me in his arms & then away to foreign lands. Soon he’ll tire of her, & cast a spell to change her form as did he mine, to suit his needs. She’ll bob & bow as I do now, and he will set me free– or so he promised, long ago. When again I feel my hands, I’ll rip away these strings & as he sleeps, I’ll pull them taut around his bearded throat, claim his magic for my own. -Marge Simon