So soft, those hands, held

velvet through lack of use,

crippled, racked with pain,

wrinkled in sad sighing,

held loosely to stop the

hurting, incapable of taking

hold, or hanging on, helpless

as they have made you, or

perhaps as you needed to be,

with a disease to which you

could only surrender, against

which there was no resistance,

no attempt to take a grip, or

to handle it in constructive

ways, but then, ‘taking a grip’

you were sure, was what led

to madness, to those places

where you had been for so

long, that they held you in

their grip, even once you had

been released; and so, you sat,

hands folded loosely in surrendered

lap, languishing always,

in sullen, rheumatic depths.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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1 Response to Hands

  1. There is something incredibly powerful about a poem of this type that is written in the second person. Somehow, it puts me there beside you as you speak to that person in pain.

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