Her Hand Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Her hand

Though roads and trees, everything…
Everywhere was covered with snow…
Clouds were stingy closed doors
The white sheet had stopped
Instead we lived on an iceberg!

Her window was rolled down
In a cold that exhale froze right
Out of the nostrils…

Her hand with shaped fingers
Made a cat
As it is a habit to artists
Plenty it is seen
On the maps and the ads
For contacts; yellow pages!

Attracted I observed
And stared
And drove closer
And saw her
She was young
Her face round
Not chubby; not bony
Skin soft.

Driver was a man
Young to be her father
What was she to person of helm?
A cousin?
A sister?
Girlfriend after fight?

Traffic was slow
Too slow
Moved as ants and turtles!

She was bored!

With her hand played with
Window's ice! ! !