Elizabeth Smither
Tonia Looks at her Hands
You were in an audience, among
beautiful people, beautiful gowns.
Suddenly you looked down at your
sixty-six-year-old hands.
You loved them, you realised.
You praised them in a glance.
No one else would consider them
hot (they had done heat
and cold, bone-chilling cold
plunged in buckets with detergent
and worse, worn themselves thin
with caresses, as if
they of all parts, echoed your heart
and its wearing, recording gestures).
Heart and hands. Your heart looking
down on them, admiring, praising.
Page(s) 40
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