Poetry       Essays       Letters

Sandy Lyne



Your hand,
your small, right hand,
the palsied hand,
the hand you call
your helping hand
the pincher hand
like a lobster claw,
the hand I held,
hand that fathered
the father,
hand that opened
my heart,
the pale hand,
the unmusical hand,
the useless hand—
like a baby,
hand that held
like a bell,
hand that held
like a rose,
the petaled claw,
the crumpled
a baby turtle
weak with hatching,
that finally
reached the sea,

your hand,

that I cannot
in my hand


© The Estate of Sandford Lyne



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