MUSED
BellaOnline Literary Review
Weevil by Mark Berkerey

Table of Contents

Poetry


The Language of Hands

Jim Murdoch

My motherís hands never held me.
I kept myself beyond her reach
misreading all of her gestures,
every last one.

My father never used his belt;
his hands were enough, big and hard.
Iíve never known hands like them since,
the servants of truth.

My daughter bites her nails like her
mum before and wears fake nails.
I canít remember the last time
that she held my hand.

My own hands sit before me, useless.
I donít know what to do with them.
There is nothing to do except
write down this poem.




Add Mused Literary Review to Twitter Add Mused Literary Review to Facebook Add Mused Literary Review to MySpace Add Mused Literary Review to Del.icio.us Digg Mused Literary Review Add Mused Literary Review to Yahoo My Web Add Mused Literary Review to Google Bookmarks Add Mused Literary Review to Stumbleupon Add Mused Literary Review to Reddit




What Do You Think?

Your Email Address: (kept private of course)


Your First Name: (pseudonym is fine)


Your Comment:


Are You Human?


What is the sum of 4 + 4?





Reader Feedback:
There is no feedback yet for this piece! Be the first to share your thoughts on it!