The gap between my fingers
The gap between my fingers
stops me in my tracks
I wear my father’s hands
big knuckles dating time
like tree rings
grief does not mend
it grows a scab on pain
a smelly cheese, buffed shoes ,
a cactus in a pot
linseed
a stranger’s ears or nose
will knock it off
to bare the wound
again
they say hands are the giveaway
and I remember his
holding a pen
a book
a Players No.10
or folded in his lap
on the day of the diagnosis
knowing the train had left the station
that it was the last one home.