I can see his hands,
I can feel them, cool,
clasped in my own,
pale with dying.
I can feel them, cool,
but seldom empty--
pale with dying,
yet filled with ourselves.
Seldom empty,
it was a comfort not to be alone,
yet filled with ourselves
before we changed forever.
It was a comfort not to be alone
before body tore from soul,
before we changed forever
and holes filled with tender skin and scars.
Before body tore from soul,
no one understood,
and holes filled with tender skin and scars
only after resurrection.
No one understood
the bread and wine.
Only after resurrection,
did anything make sense.
The bread and wine.
Clasped in my own
(did anything make sense?),
I can see His hands.
Wow! It works perfectly!
ReplyDeleteThanks! The form works, but I'm not entirely satisfied that it's clear enough.
ReplyDeleteI think it is. You move from your father's dying to Christ's death, interweaving the words, which change meanings along the way to bring out differing views. I'm not saying that well, but, for example: your father's hands "filled with ourselves" -- that's good, he needed and had his loving family. But the same words then remind us we are "filled with ourselves" in a self-centered way that requires the sacrifice of Christ to "change forever" -- the death of a loved one changes us forever, but so does Christ's death, in another way, which causes us to die to ourselves and at last to understand "the bread and wine." This is a poem I would love to take a class through, line by line, to show the evolving and woven meanings through to the brilliant ending, where the bread and wine bring you to Christ's hands.
ReplyDeleteWow! Thank you!
ReplyDelete