In one hand, I hold hurt:
the loss of my dearest husband
into his death; the pain
of a grown son become an enemy;
various cats who used to be;
particular dogs who were mighty.
I hold my mother
who named me after a fragrant herb,
telling herself she was naming me
for a pretty actress — symbolic
of love and misunderstanding
as we never quite connected ... except deep.
I hold the stepmother
who fed me poison (no, not literally,
though she'd have liked to
and to force it personally down my throat);
the father who betrayed
me and my little brother into her keeping.
This is the hand that handles
the housework, the food,
the weeding and pruning,
the careful allocation of the money;
the hand that signed divorce papers — twice
and afterwards dried my eyes.
In the other hand, the healing hand, I hold
memories of happiness
with my late husband, and with the others;
the conjured-up touch of their skin.
I hold my parents in this one too,
when they were young, when they were glad.
I hold, in this hand, my stepfather's hand
who was a friend, and all the hands
of all my friends. And I hold the hands
of my children, back before one let go.
I feel the fur of the remembered
cats and dogs, and the cat I still have.
Here in the healing hand is a map
of the green Caldera I live in (20 years now)
its mountains, rivers and ocean.
I hold, too, the island
where I grew up — its mountains and rivers
and wild ocean. I even hold an old city.
My hands themselves are old.
The backs are freckled with liver spots
and the veins have turned into strings.
But the palms are rosy and firm,
still smooth-skinned, still plump. These hands
have a clean smell and a good grip.
I stand poised, one foot on a rock
and one dipping into the water.
I am almost dancing. The wind
flirts with my skirt. The sky is a gentle blue
like the water; the clouds are fluffy soft.
There are golden flowers, green grass.
From the cups of my hands pour streams
of living water. The streams combine.
The hurts I hold are soothed and healed,
just as the sweet things I hold are defined
by certain sharp edges. I find a precarious
balance, and spread my red wings wide.
Inspired by an exercise in Wingbeats
Also posted in my facebook Notes. If you think you have already commented, but don't see your comment, it was probably made there!
‘Six Word Saturday’ emanates from Call Me Cate’s blog, Show My Face.
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Also shared at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #258
