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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