June’s Hands
Slower than Sunday morning
they ramble over
the stony topography
of knees, shoulders, lower back
while I lie on the table
in this cabin-in-the-woods
my mind a junkyard
from the 5 o’clock news—
Palestinians and Israelis,
priest molests boys,
river toxified—
I’m lattéd out
stopgostopgo
muscles tense as traffic
yield
to feather fingers
that track the back roads
of legs and neck,
uphill grind of joints.
“The hip is a hinge,”
she says
adjusting, shifting
soft
like the summer of her name
something glides
from a cage—
no destination.
©Lucy Aron, 2002
