Granny Hands by Laura Mackennon

Granny Hands

My hands have been wrinkled
since before I was born.
A baby holding all of history
before I could even hold up
my head.

Palms of love and hate and deserts
and forests. of Churches and oceans and avenues.
of pastel buildings stained by the sun. of revolution. of
house plants and electrical storms. of murder and theatrics and cartwheels
on wet concrete. of presidents and politicians and promises and
soft fruit. of terror and garden centers and over-sized newspapers.
of high tides and low-lives.

But this is a poem
so this isn’t really about
my hands.
it’s about other things. all things, really.
All things born in us and of us and
everything that we are and contain and will be.
and can be.

Despite their worldliness, I wish they were smooth.
youthful, playful, full of
promise. Not topography. Trekking ground for the brave.

Sometimes I sleep in creamy gloves. The damp hold
reminds me of when I was a newt or slug or low-bellied lizard.
In the morning these past lives too are marked on my
ragged hands.
And as I crunch and un-crinkle them
I smile to myself.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul but
really the hands are the tell.
so I bunch them down, deep into my pockets, and
keep my secrets still.

The Fear by Laura Mackennon

Ask more questions than
you answer,
and I can, until
the purple stains my teeth.

Know me, manically. Here
is everything in a
pile.

Hide in the morning,
a tent of tainted sheets.
Warm my bones
and tell me I am loved.
still.

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