Tim Lynch

by 

Tim Lynch

Ode to Hands

What I know is once your mother pushed

& now she cannot hold you.

What I believe is hands are the real windows

fogged by what breathes in us, who we keep.

What I want to know is, lost

in her house as her body

led her nowhere, did you house her

hands in yours? There, there,

you know, are no doors.

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