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douxhyunIt is her hand
In his he thinks of now.
Her hands. Not their tenderness,
But how one year they wove
The viny bittersweet into wreaths,
Which she gave away as gifts.
When they finished their work, he brought her hands,
Cut and scraped, to his mouth and kissed them.
He put her cupped hands over his face
And breathed deep the air held within them.
Eric Pankey, closing lines to “Nightshade,” Apocrypha: Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 1991)
In his he thinks of now.
Her hands. Not their tenderness,
But how one year they wove
The viny bittersweet into wreaths,
Which she gave away as gifts.
When they finished their work, he brought her hands,
Cut and scraped, to his mouth and kissed them.
He put her cupped hands over his face
And breathed deep the air held within them.
Eric Pankey, closing lines to “Nightshade,” Apocrypha: Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 1991)