Right Hand
–Vicki Feaver
Ever since, in an act of reckless
middle-age, I broke my wrist
learning to skate, my right handrefuses to sleep with me.
It performs the day’s tasks
stiffly, stoically; but at nightslides out from the duvet
to hollow a nest in the pillow
like an animal gone to groundin a hole in the hedge
whose instinct says have nothing
to do with heart, lungs, legs,the dangerous head. I dreamed of gliding
through a Breughel winter;
of sitting in smoky innsdrinking burning geneva.
My hand dreams its own dream
of escaping: a waving weed rootedin a pool so icy and numbing
I can feel its ache
rising up my arm.
Photo by Mat Reding on Unsplash