These Hands

A piece about Raynaud’s Syndrome.

Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash

I’m cold,
Mother
My hands —
Will you warm
Them?

Hold me
But I can’t
Hold your womb
Too…

These hands!
These hands!

Seen, not felt
Leathered
Couch with mould
Hidden down
Its tucks

Faded, discoloured
Trapped
In extremities
In extremis!

A reaching out?
Or holding on?
Both?

Desperate
Clinging
To her blouse
Smells the milk
But the blouse is tucked;
Tucked tight

Clawing now
Fighting
Like a vagrant rodent
Moved on
By the authorities

My hands
Are frozen
White beyond the knuckles
Small kindling
All burned up
Burnt out

Yearns
For the warmth
Hearth
Home

Cold hands —
Colder heart
I’ve felt more warmth
In the hands of a stiff!

I’ve tried rubbing them
I’ve tried tinctures
The cold seems
…Set in
Like winter

I can’t quite tell
If the tide
Is coming in…
Or going out

I guess
For now
It will be hands in pockets
Hanging
Dependent
Somehow