The trouble with memory

Day Twenty-Five (late): Write an anaphora - a poem that begins each line with the same phrase.

His hands were broken in, like old leather.
His hands were always in motion, the wings of a hummingbird,
beating, rhythmic.
His hands were empty, non-threatening.
His hands were frantic, like something had been taken from him.
His hands were outstretched, fingers pointing:

There, he said, and pointed to his arm.
There, he said, is where the blood will not come off
There, he said, and pointed to his neck.
There, he said, is where the blood will not come off.
There, he said, and put a finger to his temple.
There, he said, is where she will not come out.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Amerigo Gazaway, Breakadawn