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CAROLYN FISHER

 

           A Bird in the Hand

Since the stroke her arm hangs

like a broken wing but her hand

is clenched so tight

nails underscore her lifeline.

To free her grasp from its hidden perch

I unfurl her fingers one by one

until the skin between them webs

like the open mouths of baby sparrows,

struggling to survive

as a story does in the telling.

 

She speaks of her life often,

the slur of names and places

chronologically unclear, yet

the half-light spins a thaumatrope

of faces. Eased open,

her palm cups as if

she is weighing something up

and our fingers entwine

like wards of the key that locks

the drift of time.

 

Her lucid skin hides nothing,

much is left unsaid.

I leave her hand spread-eagled

on the bed.