Once, I had the upper hand. <br />It was clean and white, <br />and I held it up high <br />because that was where <br />it seemed to belong. <br /> <br />I came to believe, <br />that it possessed <br />something wondrous, <br />shooting esoteric power <br />from the tips and the nails <br />and the comfort of this feeble cognition <br />kept it from shaking. <br /> <br />I encountered no resistance <br />when I brought that hand down. <br />There was only <br />the willing submission <br />of misguided trust. <br />Rarely did I lay it down <br />with heat or yen in my intent, <br />though it often evoked these things. <br /> <br />I dirtied my hand some time ago, <br />crusted earth in each deep impression, <br />smothering arcadia, <br />silencing my own deluded divination. <br />I can no longer lift it, <br />so I keep it in my pocket <br />where it can do no harm. <br /> <br />It is strange then, <br />and only mildly amusing, <br />that the one sweet vision I carry, <br />is the one in which <br />a hand has been laid on me, <br />suspending this critical ache. <br /> <br />I suspect it would cure what ails.<br /><br />Tara Teeling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-lady-of-hand/
