Look at your hands. What do you see? Make something from that. Those were the simple instructions. So I followed: two dried pinpricks of blood from hangnails I worried, dog hair, a scab that’s taking its own sweet time healing, the gold band from my sweetest friend, and blue rivers of vein that render my hands topographic. Look at your hands. What do you see? What in the world can you make from that? Maybe a corny poem about how I long longed to possess my father’s hands. But I’ve come to see I have my own. Twin fields formed from the plows I’ve chosen and the particular affections that flow from my heart down their blue rivers, then back upstream.