poems

The hand that held my wrist   
Was battered on one knuckle;   
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

- Theodore Roethke, My Papa’s Waltz

His hands

Carry violence like a hand-me-down coat

too big for his frame

But they also carry gentleness like the trembling, naked body of a baby bird

They learn to nurture the bird and starve the savagery

- abby (@all-my-bi-myself on tumblr)