I cannot speak to you in metaphor. It is not enough
to paint me as the water and you
as the boulder I crash upon, and wash clean.
Certain truths cannot be betokened
by something else.
Your hands, for instance,
are your hands.

And when I think of what else
you could have become I do not think
of the metal badge you wore
when I was young. There were many
nights when I kissed you goodbye
before you left, in the kitchen you painted
with those hands.

Hands now dry, now lame.
When I hold your hand I forget
who is the child -old. Who is
the parent -young. It is hands in hands.
I tell myself nothing could be more plain.