Monday, October 17, 2011

Hand Sonata


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

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