Hands
I understand you want me
to stand in reverence
at dawn
when the bugle breaks
the clouds
and mournfully rouses
the birds who have
not yet stirred
in their nests
I understand you want me
to stand in the cold
with millions of others
in the silence of candles
while the gun salutes
blast through the memories
inherited in my cells
I understand you would like me
to revere the soldiers who fought
for peace, I rationally know it was
necessary but
I struggle with the juxtaposition
of those words “fought for peace”
Ironic
I need you to understand
my great-grandparents’
hands being found
in the rubble of their
bombed Rotterdam home
Their wedding rings
identifying them –
Which strangers held
their hands?
Hands that had held
so many children.
Hands that had loved
and worked
Hands that had rubbed
rosary beads
and prayed for peace
Strangers picking up their hands
from the rubble
Did they examine their life lines?
Was their fate noticeable
in those empty palms?
Strangers’ hands typing the
telegram
from the Red Cross
Short sentences
Stop
They are dead
Stop
Tell Alice gently
Stop
Stop
I do not mean
to offend you
but
I would struggle to stand
with millions at dawn
I prefer to light my own candles,
Invoke a light on the world
and stare at my
hands and wonder if
in any way they
resemble theirs.
© Tanya Southey @Ordinary Poetry
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