The arthritis

within my

hands

has been

thick

like stew

 

Fat

potato knuckles

crack

like carrots

 

Pain pops

like peas

to the top

of my

boiling pot

 

Peppered

with

gray ache

 

Bowls cradled

in palms

scorching

life lines

always holding

damage

 

These hands

were once

meat

now they are

gristle

 

I have gnawed

every ghost

from

these bones

 

My flavor

is weak

and

masticated

 

I crave

to feed

and

be

fed by

these hands

 

But some days

my eyes are

onions

 

White

or yellow

or red

but always

raw

 

That is when

these hands

become ladles

for grief

 

Become briny

from

simmering

for so

many years

 

 

You can also read this poem here.