For National Poetry Month, I will be sharing some of my poems that have been recently published.
The version below has been slightly changed since publication.
Your hands pop open the hood of the car,
drain the oil, twist the cap shut, stop the leak.
Your hands pump the colander and wash
shaking leaves clean.
Your hands cut the sunflowers, brown and yellow heads
already drooping from the long drive you must make
to see me through this terrible heat,
the kind that causes rashes, that beats
down on back doors. Your hands
used to know how to take off things
in the late afternoons, when we shoved
our books aside and slept on deadlines,
when I thought the world was made for straps
and sundresses without destinations.
Your hands used to know how to stop me from going.
They used to tell me a story. Now, they break up
a sentence into small pieces. They clear clutter.
They’re strong enough to pull someone from a burning car,
just not your car, just not me.