Waiting, with eagerness and anxiousness in equal measure, for the final round of changes my editor suggests for upcoming novel PUSHING THE RIVER.
In the meantime, I completely surprised myself by writing the first poem I have written in, oh, I think about forty years.
These are not the stories
Not the ones I want to tell you
Your skin, the perfect roughness of your taut hands
It is these things that make me need different stories to tell you
Ones that will match your hands
My stories, the ones that are really mine
Are for aching skin, crumbling skin
The tales that are me
fit with hands that have held
Neither newness, nor wonder
photo by Michelle Cardozo