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Amy Lowell
I CANNOT see your face.
When I think of you.
It is your hands which I see.
Your hands
Sewing,
Holding a book.
Resting for a moment on the sill of a window.
My eyes keep always the sight of your hands.
But my heart holds the sound of your voice.
And the soft brightness which is your soul.
our work ending
what is time
are hands the new books
in my new suit
turn and return
with my old lace hands
to the river sure as night
books give thorough direction
for the binding of books
O make my whole study the same
binding my hand to my hand
as ear to auditor
or hope to that old ache
a perfect god in high heels
slipping on the frosty street
our usual hands founder
lost at land
doubts made of jest
may be given over for a sacrifice
no surprise is new
on the tailor’s mother tongue
Imagine having to go on with no way to touch.
Giving birth to the child of who knows which
stoned soldier, & never knowing the silky
feel of his skin, whether to caress
or to shove away, away.
I let him nurse to ease the swelling in my breasts.
I licked him like a cat — it was all the salt I could get.
Were they not terrible, those severed hands,
when they stood back up at last
& began to point?
going places
on the little map of the hand
a room is half
as good as a shed
I get out
with my song
white light and simple talk
promise a Zen of salt
like a road in the country
of a hand
hands having to lie
to be old and content
having all the marks of honest
lived-in desire
having to keep
I see people as light
rich with use
but they are not
and I do not accept that
not knowing any
so I believe our hands
meeting
present
being us
poor hand like a hanging ham
I carry to any enemy or love
see how it hopes to change
and grow clear as a promise
a head to alter for the king
and a hand to set between us
like a used tool
we invent a new fashion
good for nothing but
to silver over age