This Lady Of Hand Poem by Tara Teeling

Once, I had the upper hand.
It was clean and white,
and I held it up high
because that was where
it seemed to belong.

I came to believe,
that it possessed
something wondrous,
shooting esoteric power
from the tips and the nails
and the comfort of this feeble cognition
kept it from shaking.

I encountered no resistance
when I brought that hand down.
There was only
the willing submission
of misguided trust.
Rarely did I lay it down
with heat or yen in my intent,
though it often evoked these things.

I dirtied my hand some time ago,
crusted earth in each deep impression,
smothering arcadia,
silencing my own deluded divination.
I can no longer lift it,
so I keep it in my pocket
where it can do no harm.

It is strange then,
and only mildly amusing,
that the one sweet vision I carry,
is the one in which
a hand has been laid on me,
suspending this critical ache.

I suspect it would cure what ails.