Customer Service

I’d like to return these hands, please,
thumbs a replacement of my father,
veins roiling the skin’s surface belong to my grandmother.
My mother’s mount of Venus softness
doesn’t fit me yet, and the fingernails
keep growing as if I am already dead.
Finally, what I’ve always wanted,
I can polish them to a high gloss, but don’t.
I like the little space that opens near
the base of my thumb by the wrist
as if it were made for salt.

When I cover my ears with these hands
I hear the ocean. Is that normal?

It’s not a renunciation, I just want a refund.
No, not a refund, an acknowledgement
that my ancestors play “Pile on the Living”
and have the best laugh as I prove I am
pretty and stupid, petty and wise,
happy and angryugly as I reach
and grab, a garish consumer
approaching the checkout.