Gloves Off (Poetry)

Tonight I look down
at the skin of my hands
in the low lamplight and know
for the first time
I truly am mortal

There is no mistaking
the change in the look
and the feel of flesh —
the pallor — the way
blue veins stand so plain

Waxy the shine
on knuckles grown thick
and cords where tendons
stretch inner wrists
no longer supple

A stranger’s hands
not the ones I’ve owned
for these many years
with fingers gone too crooked now
to wear love’s gold rings