Hands

At birth your whole body suddenly gave a damnand quaked at the cold air and light,at the quiet twister the night nurse let inwhen she pushed the swinging doors and left.That urgent evening was a mean intrusion.A red beginning. Air,a sudden burgeoning your lungs keened for,I whispered to your mother's breastyour scream meant nothing but good.I saw your blotchy skin. You, just fishedfrom that true sea, scaled in mucus.I watched the tender black handsof the nurse. How they spoke to your bodylike the son of her only daughter.

She liked your red wrinkled handscoming out as if they'd stayed too longin a bath; how they attacked the ceiling lightwith mad jabbing fists, convincedthat steel shrouded sunwasn't the sun, and didn't belong.I saw her last at the bus stopnear the hospital. She tugged a bagof groceries up three steel steps.Something in her saidshe had tugged forever. I didn't stop.I didn't take her hand and tell herhow your five fingers took my oneand made it yours, when you walkedthe top of your first stone wall. Orhow each of your steps balanced me moreas you brutally pretended to flattenthat rocky world with your small feet.