Granny Hands by Laura Mackennon
since before I was born.
A baby holding all of history
before I could even hold up
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.
so this isn’t really about
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.
youthful, playful, full of
promise. Not topography. Trekking ground for the brave.
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
And as I crunch and un-crinkle them
I smile to myself.
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
and I can, until
the purple stains my teeth.
is everything in a
a tent of tainted sheets.
Warm my bones
and tell me I am loved.