by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins
WITH ARMS OUTSTRETCHED
I never remember my hands being so small. Never
rubbed them together and thought what tiny machines.
I never imagined the items I held could be little. I knew
I could hold anything; how large the red backyard bat
was, how hefty the ball. I sat with my hands up to the sky
and waited for robins to come to my fingers, knew
if I waited long enough I could hold
the song living in the red breast of that bird.
What else can hands mean/ but magic/ I flip to the page of your hair/ it says: see spine/ I have seen it what a fine spine it is/ can it mean bend or snake/ does it mean long slow train that/ puts me in my home/ what does it mean/ when I wake up in the night/ see: dream of you falling from a bridge/ of course the birds are always something else/ see: twice bitten peach/ see: little porcelain plate/ see: how nicely I’m getting along with you
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins lives and writes in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Look for her work in Beloit Poetry Journal, PANK, Potomac Review, RHINO, and elsewhere.