A dear friend of mine said once, “You’ve got a man’s hand” At first I took offence, but then there was some truth in what he said. Here’s my thought out response to him.
Even as a child, when others played with dolls, she let her palms run through the mud.
When she grew a little older, she had the confectioner’s hands. The bakers palm, all sweaty, black, full of dirt.
They were the same hands that picked bags, Bags twice the weight of herself. She had a boy’s hand, all rough.
But these aren’t really the reason behind her coarse palms.
These are insignificant. Negligible moments told.
She had a man’s hand, because too fast she had to grow.
Because only a man’s hand, could stop the blow.
How do I own another when I barely own myself?
I can love.
But how do I coax another, arm twist him into sweet surrender.
So l let him go. Like the river making it’s unending journey.
I don’t glance over once.
If I try to stop, it’s all in vain.
The stream stops for no one.
Not even love.
Not even loyalty.
Not even faithfulness.
Not even fidelity.
It’s not a trade we can chose.
Love is a gamble we lose.
No words ever written can do it justice.
No poem can make it rhyme.
The coarse journey.
The blatant trial.
Nothing a metaphor worth a dime.
All in the name of the hate after love.
Go ahead pen your story. Tear it up. Write it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Until the past pours out from your very being.