Dum anima est, spes esse.
—Cicero

Hope is a thumbs-up from across the room
when you’re one bad thought from the door.

Hope is a palm on a back that’s been bent all year,
steadying and straightening, saying nothing at all.

Hope is a middle finger aimed squarely at cruelty, 
arming love with something sharp
for when Right must bite.

Hope is a handshake with someone you have every reason not to trust,
the muscle memory of believing
people can still surprise you.

Hope is an OK sign,
a small circle made of flesh and faith
whispering you’re doing fine, don’t panic.

Hope is a high five so hard it stings,
celebrating something that hasn’t happened yet
because enthusiasm waits for nothing.

Hope is a peace sign thrown up
in a world that doesn’t want it;
two fingers, stubborn as a weed
pushing through concrete.

Hope is fingers crossed behind your back
while you tell someone you love
that everything is going to be fine.

Hope is a raised palm
that stops what shouldn’t continue.

Hope is a clenched fist
when something precious needs defending.

Hope is an open hand
when something broken needs receiving.

Hope is soft-spoken.
It never explains itself.
It just points forward.

It’s what remains
when words fail,
when plans collapse,
when all falls down.

More than a feeling, it is a gesture.

Something you do
with the body you have,
in the moment you’re in,
for the person in front of you.

It isn’t clean.

It shakes. It blisters. It bleeds. It fumbles and holds on too long.

But it has always been
in your hands.