The Dead Give-Away
Sept 2 2008


The dead give-away
is the face
the back of the hands.

Too many years of forced smiles
abandoned laughter.
And the tears,
bitter, brackish
you could not hold back
— like ancient armies
salting the vanquished earth.
And the sun
in the freedom of summers well past,
when you were too young to know
nothing
comes free.

You used your hands,
reaching out
feeling your way like the blind.
You explored the world’s rough surface,
making contact
holding-on.
Even mountains soften
worn down by water, one drop at-a-time.
And your hands,
with their scars
their calluses
their brittle skin, stretched over thinning bones,
contain the story of a life
well-lived.

Some call it wisdom,
others call it uselessness.
How old age makes most of us
invisible.
And the rest
who are invincible
can’t help glancing in every mirror they pass,
looking
to be reassured.