a mothers hands

Her hands are 20 years older than she is

Both of them bent, gnarled and twisted

Like deformed and hardened roots

Exposed on a barren windswept hillside

They are lined and blotched with sun damage

The knuckles bulky and swollen

Torqued at the joints creating odd angles

Protruding blue veins, roping the contours

In a parody of spilled and tangled yarn

Barely contained under the dry and brittle skin

The red inflammation bulges outwards

Looking painful in its distortion

Of transparent skin and bone that has mutated

Into unusable appendages of torment

Ligaments shortened and muscles atrophied

Once nubile fingers now claws of stone

Buckled in on themselves in mutated agony

Unable to be used with dexterity

All reasonable functionality lost

They can not fully open or lay flat

All that remains is the brutal throbbing

A constant reminder they can never again be used

To inflict pain upon your daughter

Every time I notice you rubbing your ruined hands

I wonder if I see God’s judgement there

Atonement for your sins against a little girl

This entry was posted in Family, Relationships and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to a mothers hands

  1. rgonaut says:

    I hope one day you will find a way to let go of the pain and hatred. I don’t know how

  2. mala says:

    This really affected me..

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