<%@ Language=VBScript %> The Language of Hands - Mused - the BellaOnline Literary Review Magazine
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.