The Shape of The Hand



2 Comments so far. Comments are closed.
  1. Fortson,

    (Mark Thalman)

    In Grandfather’s shop, I search for a pair of gloves,
    but none seem to match. Either the right or left
    has been lost in an act of forgetfulness.

    I find a few that could be sculptures Rodin would have admired:
    a hand gripping an invisible hammer, another resting as in a lap,
    one pointing like it knew the correct direction.

    His daily sweat soaked into the leather
    making the palms shiny as calluses, fingers ridged
    until stretched like skin, worn again.

    I try them on and my fingerprints embed
    on top of his. My hands ready to rake twigs and cones
    blown down around the cabin all winter.

  2. ratchetcat,

    Thanks — that’s a terrific poem… and quite appropriate.