Poem: Resting Hands

My hands rest in my lap, white in noon sunlight.For so long they've grasped and held, pointed and mended. Now they can rest a bit. The cuts in the nails reach beyond the quick. Their surfaces are not smooth. The skin of the fingertips is creased deep and sometimes bursts open. Cat claw scars, kitchen knife scars, burn scars obliterate the life line. Now they can rest. I am done with grasping.

Alice Barrett Leverett, Massachusetts

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