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

When

Even thought is tight

Advertisements

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!
This entry was posted in poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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

    Like

  2. SalvaVenia says:

    Life is running …

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s