Blister
With twin wires, I stitch my unfamiliar hands
back together, waiting for blood
to pop from the holes I’ve made,
but the raw skin stays clean. The Trumpeters
watch me, their eyes blacker
against so-white feathers–blood
would show so well. My son
asks to help me, to draw metal
through flesh; his hands
are small, ready
for the intimacy of this experience,
but I draw back, clasp my own hands
to my chest, the burn moving
from appendage to core.
The sun
blisters our eyes. We are ready
for rain. I’m holding a hammer. My son
is holding a hammer. Swans swim
closer, looking for reference, clues, a lighthouse
to guide us all to safety, but it’s dark
in the sunlight.
I finish stitching, look at the hands. They feel
foreign. He hands me his hammer, returns
to the water’s edge, dives in, skims
the surface to the middle of the lake.
Through the holes in my hands, I see
my son with all the blood that used to be mine.
***
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Photo by Alex Slaven Photography/Flickr
