Whitman's Hands

dreams are so strange

In the night, I dreamed of Whitman's hands:

Big and bearlike but gentle to the touch.

He used those great mitts to touch my hair

and I watched them, stalwart and hairy,

As he put pen to paper and composed his

praises to humanity and Americanism.

I dreamed that he looked at me naked 

as he sang of the body electric.

He smiled at me through his great, gray beard

and laughed through sparkling eyes.

I dreamed of Whitman's hands

all scarred and ruddy from the day's labor.

Hands of a patriot, protector, adventurer, lover, animal -

They caressed my spine and cupped my face

and gave voice to my singing flesh.

I dreamed of Whitman's hands:

Thick fingers holding a delicate pencil

with unfathomable grace and sophistication.

I looked at those hands and found his New England soul:

The soul of a poet, genius, revolutionary, visionary.

Touching me for a hundred years.

Author's Note

Please be constructive.

Reviews

[Holly Mason]

very interesting wasn't sure where it was headed then boom...thank you for sharing