Delirium--Hands
by Jeff Burt
His hands were like oars, paddles, things to make kayaks and canoes move through rivers, his fingers were not separate but joined, webbed, of a single construct with the palms, thumbs like feathers, like fronds fallen from a fan, the old woman at the Chinese market waving a hand in front of her face bartering over the price of a chicken, Latina at Saturday mass in the hot evening of summer dithering it before her face covered with lace and her eyes the only visible part of her face, my mother with a bulletin cooling the heat of a sermon, of sinful thoughts, a flag above the grave of my brother to honor his service, a wing of a blackbird come close to my face as I walked the streets, wing meant to scare, to alter my route, to divert, hands like a wing meant to terrify, an omen, a darkling slap, a racket of shock to make me quiver, hunch, run.
Jeff Burt
Jeff Burt has contributed to Williwaw Journal, Willows Wept Review, and Heartwood. He has two chapbooks available, A Filament Drawn so Thin from Red Bird Chapbooks, and Little Popple River and Other Poems, from Red Wolf Editions.
More: https://www.jeff-burt.com
Comments
Like a million salient and intriguing stories all in one, causing me to read this piece over and over
Strange things, these hands. And how they may connect us to so many people and events, from bartering to the grave of a brother, and beyond. Uncanny and disconcerting, as well as relatable. Thank you, Jeff.