C.P. Crowther
Holding You Back
I hold my fingers to the light.
Not one is straight along the wood
rising from the window sash.
They bend towards the right as if,
intent on reaching, holding tight,
they’ve solidified to bone
of miss. Of let go.
My fingers, undone
from the steady bed of palm
want to pass less and less
to the hand’s hod. Knuckles swell
from rounds clutching, carrying.
What hands say now is hell.
Page(s) 55
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