- Victoria Monet
Hands
Hands conceal
Hands reveal
Hands murder
Hands grapple with the soul
His hands want to breathe free
Exposed in the light of his lover,
But they remain engloved
Veiled by fear and failure yet to come
His fingers once
Intertwined with hers now
Wrap around her neck
Clench until the last breath
God save the one who so acknowledges the world
Blood on our hands,
We squeeze hearts of
Mothers, lovers, friends
Blood on our hands,
We beat bodies of
Men, women, kids
Blood on our hands,
We hammer nails into
The innocent man
By whose hands could these tortured lovers live?
Macrina, Macrina
Pry open these hands
Palms up to the heavens,
To the bloody man
And he will bring peace
Where fingernails claw
Where doubt and dirt linger
And he will wash these hands
And with these hands, we can
Caress babies to the breast
Embrace friends to the chest
Intertwine fingers with lovers
In our old age,
These hands may weather
Tough as leather
Veiled with scars
But these hands will
Hold babies, lovers, friends
Touch wounds
To heal and mend
Trembling, join together
As they hold one another
Praying words
The mouth cannot
These hands will conceal
These hands will reveal
These hands will murmur
The final words of life
*A Poetic Reflection on Natalie Carnes' Academic Article:
“Possession and Dispossession: Wittgenstein, Cavell, and Gregory of Nyssa on Life Amidst Skepticism”