HANDS

Hands

Jane Edberg © 2003

Not common, cold, white, yet familiar, as if my own,

your hands curved like shells could hold my breath,

a breath as long as the never ending migration of birds,

like the gathering of all languages, one word after another,

fathomless, unspoken.

My warm, pink hands, soaked with fear,

are laid upon your blue, hands of marble,

whose roots move through me,

lift me like a pollen brush,

to save an eyelash, keep it safely hidden.

Hands are memories,

forever looping beneath my ribcage,

pink and blue,

like someone is crying,

like someone is laughing,

like someone is crying.