Amy Meckler | Your Hands
I memorized the slope in your hands.
I slipped through your spaces like soap in your hands.
You tucked yourself into the cage you made.
Life is, as they say in the trope, in your hands.
The sun’s in its station, dreaming of winter,
of icicles coiling to rope in your hands.
You crushed a bird once to a fist of feathers.
What would be made of hope in your hands?
Amy, you’re hungry, awaiting an offer.
Close your mouth and open your hands.
I slipped through your spaces like soap in your hands.
You tucked yourself into the cage you made.
Life is, as they say in the trope, in your hands.
The sun’s in its station, dreaming of winter,
of icicles coiling to rope in your hands.
You crushed a bird once to a fist of feathers.
What would be made of hope in your hands?
Amy, you’re hungry, awaiting an offer.
Close your mouth and open your hands.
Amy Meckler’s poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, Rattapallax, Margie, Lyric, Alyss, and Cider Press Review, among other publications. Her first collection, What All the Sleeping Is For, won the 2002 Defined Providence Press Poetry Book Award. She received her MFA from Hunter College and lives in New York City.
