His hands held me before I was born,
not the father, but the ghost.
Her hands brought the breast to my hunger,
not the mother, but the ghost.
Our loved ones are slipping further
down a freshet of ice.
Their hands are threaded purple
and their faces are lost.
A hand that strikes with a caress
takes the breath from the chest.
Hospital hands, canularised.
We empty like bags,
wet falling from us,
drip by drop.
The bones of the hand
indicate a path of intricate loss.
After the chapel and the sung thing
have resolved no thing,
hands reach like history
into our momentary veins.
Into whose hands
may we be safely delivered,
handless wanderers
on dark waters.
That dull day a ring fell from her finger
into a carpet where it drowned
as her mind has since drowned.
Yet see, up she comes,
fresh with spray
of flowers for thoughts,
and words that are not words to own.
All hands,
all hands,
handing us all.
