Retrospective
Sandy Lyne
Hand
Your hand,
your small, right hand,
the palsied hand,
the hand you call
your helping hand
the pincher hand
like a lobster claw,
the hand I held,
hand that fathered
the father,
hand that opened
my heart,
the pale hand,
the unmusical hand,
the useless hand—
like a baby,
hand that held
nothing—
like a bell,
hand that held
everything—
like a rose,
the petaled claw,
the crumpled
bell,
a baby turtle
hand,
weak with hatching,
that finally
reached the sea,
your hand,
that I cannot
hold
in my hand
anymore.
© The Estate of Sandford Lyne
