Gather – by Lisha Garcia
Gather my hands now that they are spotted,
move slowly over the knots growing on the knuckles.
Grasp my fingers together as if they were scented tulips
emerging red from winter’s hibernation.
Give me a shrine to record the stories
of a small boy abandoned to my care at birth,
today a grown man.
Remember my fingers bent in a loose curve
stroking your forehead to sleep,
or to close the eyes of your beloved grandmother
from this world to spirit.
Take my hands to the bark of a birch
to hear once again the lullaby of ants
and green wood bending to a gust.
Give me a virgin page and a purple pen
so that I may rediscover the white ledge of possibility.
Hold my scars so you don’t repeat them.
Gather apple blossoms and place them
on my chest, beneath prayerful hands.
I won’t forget, but one day,
you might long for their weight.