Wednesday, September 22, 2010

What I Held

(Pre-Script: For a more full bodied experience of this poem, read it as the song, "Gravity," #42 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

When I am old my hands won't rust
or dissolve into dust
if you blow on them, or treat them
less than gingerly.
They will remain as solid and bony as ever,
(do you see how thick my knuckles are?)
these hands that held the babies when they were born
that opened and closed opened and closed
let go of things and pulled things in and pulled things in only
to let go of them so that
I can hold them
when I am old
and my hands
contain the same nerve endings, the blood
still pumping through them from the same heart
that always pumped
(I cannot speak to the condition of this heart,
but my hands,
at least,
will be softer.)


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