appealing

The Maynard
Fall 2019

Robert Carr
0:00
 
 

Looking at My Hand I See Her

It’s become something new—
I guess the hand is mine.
Skin, the color of too much
sun. Tissue opened, become
an island on the brown.
The distance between tan
and age is only a shade
of mahogany.

Four bones travel
to my wrist as I flex
fingers. A landscape
of blood, traveling
blue over back. (I need
to clip these nails.)

As mom died, she saw
a used-to-be-tight
watch fall from wrist
to elbow. An upturned
corner of her mouth,
eyes wide.

I enjoy my black hairs,
the gold. I am her son,
happy with the men
who want to hold this
beautiful thing.