these Hands are Mine.

These hands are mine.

 

They are not my mother’s hands.

 

They’ve held the bridges of

Violins and dusty novels,

Curved ‘round frets and

Loved faces fraught with

Frail sunlight,

They’ve cradled pens and

Covered eyes too tired to

Read the words borne

Of their own cavalier

Caprice.  These hands have

Rendered rain from

Bodies while rending

Raiment clinging to vestiges

Of tired hope, all while

Washing off the stains of dreams

Beneath their fingertips. 

 

These hands have not

Held the bridges of

Of infant bones and brows

Or curved ‘round the

Limbs of hearts of wombs,

They’ve not loved the faces

Of their future nor followed

Sunlight between nascent toes

And fingers.  They’ve yet to--have not

Wondered in awestruck

Silence at the fragility of

Eyelashes and newborn lips

Or washed away the sorrow

Of the broken cord and the trauma

Of infinity that such rending

Left standing in its sanguine wake.

 

These hands…they’ve held his

Sobbing splintered face amidst

The dwindling echoes of fractured

Promises.  They’ve pressed--they’ve stifled

Heartbeats, shrill and slick

At dawn while counting fickle

Freckles on his back.  

They’ve broken

Surface to be met with the flannel

Of his anguish and the brutal denim of

His rage.  They’ve lingered over the

Shadow by his hands on the

Side of my face…too long.

 

No, these hands are mine.

 

They are not a mother’s hands.

Reviews

[Legacy]

Ess,

Again... Bravo!~

Your words have told of your story in a wonderful mind-altering way.

I believe I have unlocked this poem, yet to place it here - a shame to give away to future readers. (some people do read the magazine back to front).

I really enjoyed this poem (as I have many of yours) you have a new fan Ess.

Have a wonderful day,

Legacy

[ImagineItAll]

This is a BEAUTIFUL poem. I love how you wrote this and I love the subject matter.