FREE Hand.

FREE Hand

 

He was panting

as he pointed

to the words on the page,

looking me desperately

in the eyes.

 

“but how does that apply

to me?” I whispered.

 

His face flushed

as my bracelets rattled,

I tried to straighten the crucifix

resting on my chest.

 

I noticed

the white of his collar,

was a little less impressive

in the bright

church lights.

 

And I could hear the scratching

of his morning stubble,

scraping angrily

against it.

 

His hands shaking with

the assumption of righteousness,

his fingers were

now purple,

pressed hard into

the accepted definitions

of that great book.

 

And all I could muster,

was a concerned smile.

 

As he pointed

me to the door.

 

With his FREE hand.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

This poem really packs a wollop, both poetically and message-wise. This is some really good stuff, Abby, and I commend you for it.