12-07-2023, 11:52 PM
Your Hand I Remember
For Lillian 1914-2000
I.
The thicket dark and brambled
memories flitting
branch to branch, offering
scant glimpses, precious
faint calls of bird song
logged and recorded.
But you,
you caught among thorns,
what can I hope
to remember of you?
II.
Lily of the valley blooming
sweet sprays of white bells ringing
round the hillside behind
your house on Martha Washington;
those stairs the height of Everest
how me and the cousins we tumbled
down and down again playing octopus
with Grandpa always lit by his blazing
holiday fire; the child’s thrill
wishing against wishing
to be caught. But never you
did I see so carefree, your song you sang
quietly from the small corners
in the background of memory, I imagine
sitting at the pink Formica table
in the kitchen talking, just us two,
your Lauren Bacall gapped grin,
the curl off your cigarette, hanging
on every missing word never
heard from you to know you. But
where was I other than lost
in the full-time job of just
being young.
III.
It could’ve been the light
of early fall or the height
of summer not letting
on that time is short
in that bright hospice room
I held your hand
not knowing what else; comforted
by the quiet bustle of soft
shoed nurses. Quick to smile,
they hustled tucking blankets
and tending pumps and morphine drips
to the regular rhythm of ragged breath;
wishing against wishing
each is your last.
Your hand I remember
delicate as bird bones,
skin whisper soft
spotted and thinned
by years
held us to the end.
For Lillian 1914-2000
I.
The thicket dark and brambled
memories flitting
branch to branch, offering
scant glimpses, precious
faint calls of bird song
logged and recorded.
But you,
you caught among thorns,
what can I hope
to remember of you?
II.
Lily of the valley blooming
sweet sprays of white bells ringing
round the hillside behind
your house on Martha Washington;
those stairs the height of Everest
how me and the cousins we tumbled
down and down again playing octopus
with Grandpa always lit by his blazing
holiday fire; the child’s thrill
wishing against wishing
to be caught. But never you
did I see so carefree, your song you sang
quietly from the small corners
in the background of memory, I imagine
sitting at the pink Formica table
in the kitchen talking, just us two,
your Lauren Bacall gapped grin,
the curl off your cigarette, hanging
on every missing word never
heard from you to know you. But
where was I other than lost
in the full-time job of just
being young.
III.
It could’ve been the light
of early fall or the height
of summer not letting
on that time is short
in that bright hospice room
I held your hand
not knowing what else; comforted
by the quiet bustle of soft
shoed nurses. Quick to smile,
they hustled tucking blankets
and tending pumps and morphine drips
to the regular rhythm of ragged breath;
wishing against wishing
each is your last.
Your hand I remember
delicate as bird bones,
skin whisper soft
spotted and thinned
by years
held us to the end.