Her Hands

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Her Hands

 Her hands were cold,
her fingers were long:
I hoped she’ll tell me
what was wrong.

She warmed her hands
beneath hot water.
She was young enough
to be my daughter.

“If you were my dad,
here’s what I’d say …”
I liked it when
she talked that way.

But what she said
was not good news.
Tumors and lumps
left little to choose.

“And yet,” she said,
you have some choice.”
I’d have answered, but
I’d lost my voice.

My hands were cold.
My legs were shaking.
I could not speak.
My heart was breaking.

 

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