I. <br /> My uncle talked to wood with his bare hands. <br /> <br /> His rough and calloused fingertips <br /> coaxed the grain to say its name: <br /> bird's eye maple, southern yellow pine. <br /> He savored the purchase of fine woods <br /> the way a richer man buys a piece of art: <br /> for his collection. To have. To touch. <br /> <br /> I don't think they'd like <br /> this wood they've got him in now. <br /> The grain isn't matched quite properly <br /> there, on the end. <br /> <br />II. <br /> Pinned by the undertaker's eager smile <br /> and brilliant chatter, I touch the box. <br /> <br /> 'It was hard to get his coloring right. <br /> He was so fair. You look like him. <br /> Are you his daughter? ' <br /> <br /> No. He never married. <br /> But you did a good job. <br /> <br /> 'And he was such a large man, <br /> although I understand <br /> he's been sick recently? <br /> It was hard to find something <br /> of the right size for him.' <br /> <br /> Yes, he was a big man. <br /> <br />III. <br /> When his father died, I helped my uncle <br /> lay out the clothes. We smoothed wrinkles <br /> from a worn black suit, a white shirt. <br /> He was stumped on which tie to take <br /> and finally held up something grey, knitted. <br /> <br /> 'It's funny how small this looks now. <br /> I used to borrow it to wear to school.' <br /> <br /> Then it's the right one. <br /> <br />IV. <br /> I want to touch my uncle's hands. <br /> I'm afraid of how cold he is. <br /> So I touch instead, black suit, white shirt, <br /> another knitted tie. <br /> Good bye. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />(c) 1994<br /><br />Lynn Cohen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-uncle-s-hands/
