Right hand, cut from rough sandstone, enfolding line within line.

Bright of the dark blood sings in the palm

sculpts rock to alabaster.

​

But not a hand the sun shines through.

It harbours light.

The maker’s palms are cut by waves,

his fingers blocked in black granite.

​

Fierce hands, his hands are steel.

Both right and left.

An instant they rest on the frame’s edge.

The circle is done.

Dry blood can’t hold bright.

​

Tippling from outstretched palms into the mothering open.

Time’s dark block wont tarnish coarsen or flake: frail hands hard with light.

Two diamonds.

​

Meena Alexander
November 1974