My niece is sat opposite me
My niece is in possession of paint
And a paintbrush
And I’ve surrendered my hands to her.

That tickles!
My face scrunches

Paint properly plastered
The newspaper in front of us her dad had put down for her she swaps for plain
I wiggle the digits on my
Upward facing palms.

Now flip!
Like this?
She nods
And splat
SPLAT!

The One That Married Into This
Via me
Comes in from the kitchen.
I rise from my cross-legend position
And pat his cheek as we meet in the doorway
Then I rest my hand on his shoulder,
Trying to gaze lovingly,
As opposed to smirking.
He doesn’t notice the paint
Because it’s warm
And maybe I’ve just got clammier hands than usual.
I go to wash my hands off.

Your turn!
Le artiste demands
My turn?
Everybody turn!
Great-aunties groan.
Alright then.

SPLAT!

The One That Married Into This
Touches a reassuring
Painted
Palm
To just below my back.

So ordinary
We only notice the paint prints
As we graze the hall mirror
As we start the 30 minute process
Of saying goodbye

Walking art
He whispers
As we walk out the door

I'm sorry your hands had to leave bruises on my skin
and that my love breaks your ribs.

I'm sorry for the bruises I made in your heart
and for the lies I told with the same lips you tasted.

I'm sorry for the bruises I bore in my heart
and for the storm I brought to your mind.

I'm sorry for the bruises I left in your life,
and made you see my chaos with your eyes.

I'm sorry for the bruises made from holding onto you too tight,
and for the hate that filled your lungs.

I'm sorry for the bruises I can't erase
I'm sorry for the bruises old scars replaced.

I'm sorry for the bruises my fingertips left
I'm sorry for the bruises my lips marked on yours

I'm sorry for the bruises on your wrists with my handprints
I'm sorry for the bruises that took your breath away.

I'm sorry for the bruises.

Put your hand in mine
I whispered to
my newborn son
I’ll try to keep you
safe and warm

Put your hand in mine,
together we will fight.

Let me carry you, my boy
for your feet are weary,
even though they have never
carried a load.

Lend me your hand,
dear Michael,
for once you are gone,
I will see your prints
on my heart.

Walk with me
in memory,
dear child.
For someday,
we will walk
together.

Put your hand in mine,
and bid us farewell.

Lay quiet, my baby boy
Jesus will take you
home.