Mireille Astore

The Hand

 

Is this the hand I carry

Floating and brushing my memory?

 

Something is tapping at my temples

Something to last perhaps

Something to mourn even.

 

Maybe

From within desert dunes,

Your hand

Will sprout blades

Of grass

And will hold the brilliant silk scarves

That cover my gaze.

 

And yet

And yet

Something is tapping at my temples

Something to last perhaps

Something to mourn even.

 

©Mireille Eid