The Hand (poetry)

This is the hand that stroked a baby’s cheek,
caressed and smoothed a lover’s trembling skin,
this is the hand that held a clever pen,
whittled wood or played the violin.

The hand convention offered sociably —
a hand well-used to shaking hundreds more —
the hand that friendship sealed with a firm grip
those promises too glibly made before.

This is the hand familiar with the plough,
that tilled the land and knew the simple life,
this is the hand that turned from blameless things
and learned to fire a gun and wield a knife.

This hand once joined with others in a sea
of countless hands that waved their world goodbye,
but now lies still, curled hollow like a shell
that holds its echo — cups the blood’s last sigh.