For they are Jupiter’s hands.
Nausicaa would give Odysseus:
Sturdy, spare, clever
The hands she imagined touching her knees in supplication,
Dropping the olive branch he held that covered his nakedness.
Because he did not touch her.
He dared not approach and pled with words when he should have
Dropped the olive branch and knelt, put his fingertips on her knees
His thumbs lightly stroking the indent of her kneecaps
And remained silent.
This is not Jupiter of the heavens
Whose hands are large and fleshy and square
Clumsy from wielding impotent thunderbolts
Are the hands Genji hid in the folds of his kimono:
Slender, long, able
That inspired Murasaki to take up her brush, paint a story
Calligraphy flowing wildly down the pages.
Like Nausicaa, she wrote herself into the story
But there’s a twist for in the fifth chapter, when Genji first touches her
She is a child, mother recently deceased. Beautiful like Lolita.
Genji kidnaps her. Trains her to be his ideal lover.
Part of that training—calligraphy.
I am not Nausicaa, not Murasaki
He is not Odysseus or Genji
They are Jupiter’s hands, not of heaven
The story is different.