one day my hand will come into its own

the split skin will heal
and the creases smooth out
and the nails grow strong 
my half-moons will shine 
sleek and shaped 
and the iron burns
the lock bites
the claw scars
the knife marks
will all be gone
as if they never had been
and I will live again
with a clean white hand
and wrist
not sullied by time
and incidence
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem