Monday, October 17, 2011
At rest, the fingers curve, folding over,
slightly biased towards the thumb,
which sits straight beside the palm's creased padding
like a tor watching over rivery lines.
Clenching, blunt, fused, my arm weapon now,
I strike table, face, gristle, bone
with sudden taut sinewed force flattening.
My concentrated power enraged. Fist.
'Like this...' And I learn to fold and crease
the paper delicately, my fingers shaping,
manipulating, teasing form into being -
the finished crane actual in its intent.
When they send me down, hands hung
limply by my side, I can still feel
his windpipe beneath my thumbs - his neck
mine to crush; his fate mine to hold.
My son comes to me now, takes my hand,
this withered thing that no longer holds a pen.
Tenderly I stroke him. Tenderly he curls my hand
in his. I feel the pressure of his clasp.
And gently struck, a distant piano articulating notes.
1 September 2011