Thick and quiet – the snowfall around us;
easy silence; we walk through the forest.
There’s no need for small talk or stories –
we have lived through them all, to be honest.

Cold is creeping inside and I shiver,
I’m a wreak as we stop by the river.
Chill is only a part of the worry –
deep inside, for you feelings I’ve buried.

Always kind, you have noticed me get cold;
of my palms you have taken a strong hold.
Your breath warms my shaking frostbitten hands
but it is my heart that hopelessly melts.

Here, in place, I stand totally frozen.
You are close, but I want to be closer.
Would you let my mouth steal, savour this breath,
my arms hold you right here, in an embrace?

My hands hurt, my hands tremble
My hands itch, my hands scratch
My hands drag, my hands drag
My hands push, my hands shove
My hands bend, my hands break
My hands scream, my hands implore
My hands are cut off under the gleam of the midnight oil
My hands are cold, my hands are still

I will never see them again.

birds are chirping,
flowers have bloomed
why is it so hard to reach you,
when i'm here—
ready to hold you?

Sometimes, your silence is a cold- blooded creature
Unpredictable, uncontrollable, unknowable.
How will I approach this prickly animal?
my hands hover,
unknowing

Other times it is a fireplace,
Warm from a far, but you know not to get too close.
My hands hover.

But today, your silence is a handwarmer,
Small, familiar and soft.
I’ll sit with it in my hand a while until it goes cold.

Faces are our covers
They show the world what we want it to see and to believe

A replacement cover can make a tired old book look new

But hands tell a different story

On the ends of your arms are two gossiping wagging tongues

They always tell the truth!

I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
                                               struggles to intubate a cat.  
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
                                                      practition­ers are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
                                                                ­     the sternum sore.  

Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.  
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.

Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
       after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.  

The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.  
The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.  
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.  
                                                        ­               The eleventh hour,
                                                                ­  isn’t that what it’s called?  

We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.  
We have to, but it won’t register.  
                                                     ­       After a loss, after a trauma,
                                                                ­   we are on autopilot.  
I think of my mother,
                                        six feet beneath frozen soil in
                                      a pink padded casket and think:
                                                                ­                             I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
                                                          ­                                   I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.  
Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.  
We don’t talk about it.  

We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.  
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)

I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.  
I couldn’t do these things.
                                                 My hands tend to break what they touch.  
The glass bowl in the pet store.  
                               The clay project in art class.  
                                                        ­    The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
                                                                                    good at trauma.

Sobbing in my hands,
wishing for the world to be
finally at peace.

The power of my mind
From parentage divine
To act with true free will
And all my dreams fulfill

The power of my heart
A kindness to impart
To share life’s path with you
And keep the loving view

The power of my hands
To carry out my plans
To work with you, as friends
For life - it has no ends

The power of my feet
To walk where we can meet
For when we act as one
Our joy has just begun

my hands are full
and my fingers are breaking
for counting my sins
and all of my flaws.
so i apologize
if couldnt hold myself together.