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my right hand
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my right hand holds the towel tenderly stroking dry
the pacemaker tucked neatly in under bulging skin
a pouch the surgeon made while I watched the film
the day before wires were pushed from my groin
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through the aorta with a camera filming inside me
guided to my heart I watched its voyage on the screen
above my head — then the announcement made
all arteries and veins clear — “vena amoris”
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I remember wedding rings on the heart finger
my right hand holds the black as night coffee
sticky as thick molasses swirling in the cup
my right hand holds the spoon, lifts the cup
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my right hand holds the knife blade holds the axe
guides the spade drives the steel into the soil
holds the pencil strokes the dog dries the dog
my right hand picks up the phone, opens the front door
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touches my mother’s face a foto taken one Christmas day
my right hand turns the key starts the ignition starts the car
my right hand holds your waist cups your breast feels your heart
fills another cup with coffee holds it out for you feels your warmth
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my right hand rubs tears from my eyes rubs tears from your eyes
gently smooths your cheek this is the hand that has a tremor
left overs from car crash PTSD flash backs night sweats nightmares
today it stopped — yesterday my right hand didn’t shake at all
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my right hand feels the smile on my face the grin feeling the emptiness
of another shielded day my right hand feels the warmth of the earth
my right hand an honest hand wrinkled with age with some scars
some used to be blue with coal dust, a silver scimitar on my right thumb
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from an accident in the street when the bike skidded overturned
the day after the coal had been delivered to Mrs. Jones No 9
the fading blue has gone only the memory remains unchanged
may be its healing nerve ends reconnecting forgetting editing out
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my right hand raised in a wave as I watch each child leave after a stay
drive away a too short visit close the door on a cold day my right hand
holds you holds your look of sadness holds you tight as I watch tears
fall for each child’s leaving feel you come into my arms my right hand holds you.
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this is my right hand that has not shaken another right hand in greeting
for a year this right hand will open the door shake a strangers hand once more
this right hand waiting to be shaken and shaken again by someone else
the right hand of a friend, someone close, someone else — long absent
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this right hand holds a voice on the phone perhaps a ghost on a screen
this right hand is waiting to be held feel alive to hold the warmth of someone
else
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©robcullen10052021
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Celfypridd 