Two Poems
“This is How they Come Back to Us” by Barbara Kingsolver
“Poetry Assignment 4: What Do You Miss Most?” by Richard Blanco
A Poem
His Hands
by ljkemp
My beloved’s hands,
not just those that know
my body’s every curve,
hold mine on our evening walks,
squeeze them to draw out sorrow’s energy.
The ones that change flat tires
on the side of the highway,
meticulously fold five days of uniforms
out of the dryer on Saturday,
construct our mind’s images and ideas
into things, real and functional.
The ones that with great care
break apart the tiniest of twigs,
thoughtfully placing each piece,
carefully arranged kindling on the campfire.
I think of him young with still perfect hands.
The ones that proudly wore a class ring
with a swimmer etched in the side.
The ones that were perfectly calloused
from digging ditches and handling tools.
The ones that were the first to touch me,
in ways I never knew I want to be touched.
The ones that took mine in his
and made a promise.
The ones that delivered our baby from
me and held him with tears of joy.
Those vivid and tenderly details rendered,
these are how I will always remember his hands.
Italics:
The first italicized line is from Kingsolver’s poem and the second is from Blanco’s poem.
No comments:
Post a Comment