The Story in My Palms
By Beheshta Adel
Delicate, slender hands, each with five fingers like thin pencils
of varying heights, standing side by side in quiet harmony.
Veins softly visible beneath the skin, tinted a gentle green,
like a new born sparrow whose throat glows with color and
movement when it swallows.
And the nails, they always reflect her inner state.
On the days when she feels alive, every nail is trimmed,
square and neat, uniform like tiny framed windows of care.
When her heart leaps with excitement, ready to go somewhere special,
her nails sparkle, painted to match her dress, shining like little diamonds.
But, the days she drifts away from herself,
when she forgets to glance at these tiny, loyal hands,
look closely then, and you’ll hear them whisper,
maybe even scream without sound.
I need your attention. Look, haven’t you noticed?
Some of us are broken — grown too long, and now we’re cracked.
And before long, the girl returns to herself.
She gazes at the backs of her hands, where pale veins draw delicate paths,
at the palms lined with mysterious symbols, at the uneven nails, some tired,
and she wonders, Must I always feel okay to care for my hands?
These little hands, they’re powerful sorcerers.
They write, they create, they comfort with every touch.
They hold warmth, and give it too.
They squeeze tight before a big exam to release fear.
They dance with grace, with rhythm, with softness.
They hold, they heal, they carry life in gestures.
And the girl, emerging gently from her wandering thoughts,
looks once more at her hands, and then takes a quiet step forward,
to care for them,
to care for herself.
Beheshta Adel, 19, was born and raised in Kabul, Afghanistan, where she spent most of her childhood and adolescence. At 16, when the Taliban took over the country, she migrated with her family to Iran. Her passion for writing, particularly poetry, began during that time, when literature became her only shelter in an unfamiliar world. This passion deepened after an Iranian friend introduced her to the works of Sohrab Sepehri, whose poems free of rhyme and written like prose were unlike anything she had encountered before. Inspired, she began writing her own poems, mostly in Farsi but also in English.
Currently based in Islamabad, Pakistan, she is preparing to move to Indonesia to pursue a bachelor’s degree in IT. While university life will demand much of her time and effort, she remains certain that poetry and literature will continue to be a refuge in both her good and difficult days.
