"Right Hand" by Philip Fried

Grandfather carried his voice in the seamed
palm of his right hand, the one
that had ironed countless taciturn trousers.

What an eloquent hand, it broke into grins
and sell-assured narration whenever
it opened--how could a hand carry nothing,
bear away nothing from its nation?
When it entered a room, even the corners
mumbled in Yiddish, the very dust
had sifted from the consonants' guttural rubbing.

The poems this hand had proclaimed to shirts
as it moved back and forth like a Greek chorus
across the stage of the ironing board--
these poems had diffused in clouds of steam.

Grandpa himself had long been struck dumb
by the garrulity of his hand,
but sometimes he'd thrust it deep in his pocket
and, straightening up, displaying an uncanny
knack for spelling English words.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

1. Explain the meanings of lines 8-9 (When it entered... the very dust)

2. What language do you think the grandfather uses the most often? Explain.

3. Why do you think he puts his hand in his pocket when he spells English words?

4. What feeling toward Grandfather does this poem convey? Explain.

5. What kinds of stories might the hand or the grandfather have to share?