TWO HANDS

​

Right hand, cut from rough sand

stone, enfolding line within

line. Bright of the dark

blood sings in the palm

sculpts rock to

alabaster

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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.

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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.

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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