Poem: Untitled Poem 2

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 deeply

and sometimes bursts open.

Cat claws, knicks, and burns

obliterate the life line.

Now they can rest.

I am done with grasping.

Alice Barrett Levrett, Massachusetts

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