These Are Not My Hands

These Are The Hands Of My Fate

It’s late.

I’m reading a book, unlearning how to write,

or maybe not.

I see an old man’s hand turn the page.

I see whitlows, ragged cuticles,

little bitten nails,

shiny skin, and wide open pores.

Old hands.

My mother’s hands,

God help me.

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