Michelle Brock
The Anatomy of My Parent’s Hands
Her hands . . . His hands . . .
at a chopping board
paring knife tucked in her palm
slicing, dicing, navigating
the surface of a potato or in a sink
of soapy water dunking, splashing
scrubbing till the dishes shine
combing through soil in the vegetable garden
dropping seeds into a furrow, one-by-one
plucking sun-ripened tomatoes or easing
green leaves aside to harvest beans
at the laundry tub soaking, rubbing, squeezing
before pegging underpants and overalls on the line
then back inside whisking a broom
across the kitchen floor
wrapped around a spray-gun’s trigger
guiding paint over car bodies
polishing duco till it shines
later at the laundry tub
dousing his fingers with thinners
then scrubbing them with Solvol
at the sewing machine
pulling pins, guiding fabric past the bobbing needle
conjuring new outfits for her children
in the workshop taming the dragon
in his welding iron or guiding timber
past the hungry teeth of a circular saw
on Saturday night tracing the lid of the box
that holds a manicure set and caressing
the bottle of pink nail varnish,
never used
at the waterhole twirling a fishing line
between his thumb and forefinger
sifting the silence
in front of the television
hand in hand
on the sofa every night
for sixty-eight years
until . . .
unpacking her hospice bag
placing her slippers beside
the bed and not knowing
where to put
his grief.
