With My Hands

July 14, 2011 § Leave a comment

With my hands, I am a food maker: drink taster, bread baker
With my hands, I am a bone mender: wound healer, hurt tender
With my words, I am a dream weaver: bell ringer, heart cleaver
With my words, I am a spell binder: web spinner, gilt liner
With my heart, I am a failure: too much fear, too much anger
With my heart, I am a hidden sorrow: a burning brand, broken arrow

Hands and words and heart, I tried to hold you but I hurt you
Heart and hands and words, I want to warm you but I wound you.

When I’m lying, darkness creeping, in my bed, missing sleeping
My hands are clenching, memory unfolding: it’s your heart that I am holding.
And your eyes hurting, seeking, want the answers I’m not keeping.
If I could by speaking, knowing, keep that hurt from ever showing
Would I be at rest and dreaming, rather than this ceaseless weeping?
But your tears, tortured, haunting, are a torment, a sad taunting
Of the feelings I am quelling, masking.  I hear everything you aren’t asking.

You are tempting, so appealing, offering me such quick healing
That I am gasping, bending, feeling in my heart its utmost rending.
Is it wrong, this great yearning, to see your smile, beloved, returning?
And if I’m saving, mending, with my love your broken ending,
Won’t I now, your share receiving, be thus finished with my grieving?
Oh! I can’t be forcing, prying, into doubts there’s no use denying!
At last I sleep, tossing, turning, and in my dreams at last I’m learning
It’s for your lost innocence I’m crying, and it may last until I’m dying.

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