hands

Waiting, with eagerness and anxiousness in equal measure, for the final round of changes my editor suggests for upcoming novel PUSHING THE RIVER.

In the meantime, I completely surprised myself by writing the first poem I have written in, oh, I think about forty years.

 

Untitled

 

These are not the stories

Not the ones I want to tell you

Your skin, the perfect roughness of your taut hands

It is these things that make me need different stories to tell you

Ones that will match your hands

 

My stories, the ones that are really mine

Are for aching skin, crumbling skin

The tales that are me

fit with hands that have held

Neither newness, nor wonder

 

 

 

 

photo by Michelle Cardozo

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s