Wynne Huddleston

Sleep’s blindfold falls
hours before dawn. In the dark I feel
for it, but yet another old sin snags
my satiny sheets like a jagged
fingernail. Gets me
out of bed, searching
in the red-peppered blackness
for a file to smooth it. I must

turn on the light to examine the offense
of my nails, my hands, then ask
God if there is
water holy enough to heal
this damage. How well I know
the skin that stretches
across these hands, thinner each year, losing

the ability to forget,
to retract. Now it climbs
over years of brittle bones, it hangs
at their painful junctures, and leaves
a host of crevices from which regret can
escape. No balm can absolve

the guilt of these hands, nor restore
their innocent beauty. No polish can
stop the snag of remembered sin; but
I have found a worthy file—
acceptance. And this is all I have
to grasp, and all I have
to give.