oh, steam whistle! oh, lenin!
Today, rather than paying attention to a Robinson Crusoe discussion in class, I ... wrote a poem. At first I called it Two Shoes That Were Not Fellows (from the text of Robinson Crusoe) but I think His Hands Are Bigger Than Mine is a better title. I haven't written anything I like in a while. But I'm sort of into this one. Whatevs.
His Hands Are Bigger Than Mine
We kicked off our shoes
at the foot of our bed
which was actually grass and clover
and not blankets and sheets.
My sneakers and his scuffed loafers
rescued from Salvation Army
the part in the back
with the broken heels
and cracked ice skates.
Our shoes, tumbled against each other,
almost like our knees
which tumble into a four-legged pyramid
with a ball of warmth
down between our hips.
His hands
are bigger than mine
and stronger, laced with veins
and muscles made for carrying:
sorrow and life and heat.
There's a sense of ritual in
hs fingers
and the way they know where mine are
even in the dark, and how
the knuckles curl
to keep my palms warm
when our clenched hands fall down
onto the grass.
he keeps his knuckles on the outside
towards the wind and sky.
Just in case.
The summer breeze
twists around our ankles
and shoots through our ribs
and up, to the sky
shooing the clouds this way and that
way up above our chins.
There are faces, sometimes,
looking down at us little ones
collapsed on the grass and clover
running a summer day to the bone
of nothing more and purple twilight
which is always most beautiful
in summer
because the sun is loath to let go of the horizon
and lingering orange fingerprints
fade away into the night time,
sharing space with the stars.
Nights are warm
on the grass during summer
and we'll sleep here until the morning dew
pricks the blades beneath us
and if Night throws a chill
across our shoulders,
his hands are bigger than mine,
and warm.
His Hands Are Bigger Than Mine
We kicked off our shoes
at the foot of our bed
which was actually grass and clover
and not blankets and sheets.
My sneakers and his scuffed loafers
rescued from Salvation Army
the part in the back
with the broken heels
and cracked ice skates.
Our shoes, tumbled against each other,
almost like our knees
which tumble into a four-legged pyramid
with a ball of warmth
down between our hips.
His hands
are bigger than mine
and stronger, laced with veins
and muscles made for carrying:
sorrow and life and heat.
There's a sense of ritual in
hs fingers
and the way they know where mine are
even in the dark, and how
the knuckles curl
to keep my palms warm
when our clenched hands fall down
onto the grass.
he keeps his knuckles on the outside
towards the wind and sky.
Just in case.
The summer breeze
twists around our ankles
and shoots through our ribs
and up, to the sky
shooing the clouds this way and that
way up above our chins.
There are faces, sometimes,
looking down at us little ones
collapsed on the grass and clover
running a summer day to the bone
of nothing more and purple twilight
which is always most beautiful
in summer
because the sun is loath to let go of the horizon
and lingering orange fingerprints
fade away into the night time,
sharing space with the stars.
Nights are warm
on the grass during summer
and we'll sleep here until the morning dew
pricks the blades beneath us
and if Night throws a chill
across our shoulders,
his hands are bigger than mine,
and warm.