The Lay of the Hand

From high above
I watch the lay of the hand
Tanned lying there on a snowy towel
Ridges of cartilage & bone
Arising landscape
Carved dark here & there
By darker rusty canals of old blood
Coursing beneath the rime
That is the skin
Swabbed bruise-yellow 

Now in anticipation of surgical steel

A tiny ice cold catheter
Slipped skillfully
As a laser into the aquifer
Of life pulsating throughout the body
For a long moment nothing
Then a bright red line
A county road on a map
In country hardly habitable in times
Of physiological recession


Even thought is tight


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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7 Responses to The Lay of the Hand

  1. brings to mind my holding the hands of my parents in their turns at the hospital


  2. SalvaVenia says:

    Life is running …


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