Issue 8 | Winter 2011


They keep working, folding into palm,
reaching out, free for moments at a time;
while you cannot speak with your mouth,
they grasp the hand that is offered;
they remember how to move to a song
you’ve forgotten, how to touch and hold
and let go. They are your last extension,
the furthest reach you have, and they are
trembling, opening up, getting ready
to be born and new again while the rest
of you is, at arm’s length, slowly dying.

Filed under: Poetry