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.