I learned to knit
to give my hands
a hobby.
My project
remains untouched –
stitches dropped
and picked up again,
loose ends and frayed string. I can
barely lace the yarn and needle.
These hands are knotty,
untamed tree roots
buckled in flirtation,
ready to pierce through
the skin, re-plant
in another, capture.
Bones a pile of eager love
crippled in disguise.
The days of youth
afraid of forgetting: these
are already fragile hands. Who
will love them when they are older?
Who can carry them when
it’s painful to fold them in prayer?
Who will wear this miserable scarf?
About the author:
Jess Bouchard is currently an MFA student in Philadelphia. She’s originally from upstate New York, and also studied in Portland, Oregon. More of her work can be found in The Foundling Review, Don’t Be Spineless, and work forthcoming in the Mad Poets Review.
I found the poem to be very good. The use of the alliterating “S” sound seems to mimic the painful twisting of the joints that comes with arthritis. The slow, awkward line breaks make the reader pause and shift to the next line. I’d love to read more by this poet.
Good job