What my hands don't know now
Left cupped beneath his tiny head
Right moving water in delicate spoons
As if in apology for the light
What my hands don't know now
Holding him to my chest
Wounded head against my shoulder
To dissipate a wounded pride
Tears drying on my neck
What my hands don't know now
Moulding his fingers
To a guitar neck
In the shape of a difficult chord
What my hands don't know now
Lifting him over that last stretch of rock
To be with him
In a wordless reverie
Of exhaustion
At the top of one
Ordinary mountain
What my hands don't know now
Is the curious sensation
Of carrying the absence of something
And still feeling its weight
When his affections will
Break the sphere we were granted
What my hands don't know now
Is the sweetest amnesia
I ever learned to forget
#NaPoWriMo 2013 poem number 29
© Brendan Bonsack
April 2013