Tag Archives: burn

Hands

I attended by best friends’ wedding this week, and I couldn’t help but notice how different my stubby, scarred blacksmith hands look compared to those of most other young women. So I did what I do, and wrote a poem about it:

too long it’s been for me to change these hands
my fingers curl, my fist here ready stands
were I a girl, I’d have less blemished skin
stretched over knuckles rough like battered sands

at least, that’s what the universe here cries
when peering down my forearms with its eyes
the scars and burns stand proud despite its glare
each cicatrix a story here describes

it’s tempting, still, to heed the sacred lie
that states I am what I look like and buy
defiant cries from surface, screen, and air
once muddled, focus, then my strength belie

“the outside can be changed,” the TV calls
the ads flash bright, the colored screen enthralls
and I look down, the difference too stark
my skin more marred beside these whitewashed walls

disarming, how a sight can make you see
both forest and the lonesome standing tree
and I, that tree, think sometimes that to stand
alone is worse than leaving all of me

and yet, return from that most dangerous thought
is brought by comfort and with sunlight bought
the golden rays pass hands in great exchange
bring color to my arms, til they burn hot

my fingers can now hold the very fire
that runs beneath my veins in friendly ire
and pick up steel turned orange by the forge
that formed my scars, did every burn inspire

refusal to give in to what they say
has led to holding fire in this way
for with each mark the sunlight here cements
a hold upon my hands and heart each day

each morning I look up to see the sky
hands raised in praise, no though of asking why
no blemishes, no failures mar my skin
each scar is beauty – beauty found within

M.
Jun 26/17

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