A poem by Laurie Kuntz.


A man once told me I had beautiful hands,
I look at them now, try to imagine
what he saw that year I turned twenty
gave in to his attentions
without giving anything up.
Staring hard into the past’s blinded eye
are airy hands, smooth skin, slim wrists,
a time when I thought I could hold the world
and get away with it. Since then, these hands
chapped and lined from seasons’ wrath
have gnarled mercy into regret –
memories will never be as telling as moments
alone with a forbidden man –
time will never seem so wicked
as that year a man took me into his furnished room,
asked nothing but to let my hands save
him from what he yearned for,
while outside the four-pane window
linden trees were in early bloom,
and afterwards everything I fingered
was awe-pink, like skin across an open palm
able to hold the untouchable.

Laurie KuntzPoem by Laurie KuntzPhoto credit Lianne Bowen
More poems by this author on Osho News
Previously published in Indiana Voice Journal

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