Jim Murdoch

My mother’s hands never held me.
I kept myself beyond her reach
misreading all of her gestures,
every last one.

My father never used his belt;
his hands were enough, big and hard.
I’ve never known hands like them since,
the servants of truth.

My daughter bites her nails like her
mum before and wears fake nails.
I can’t remember the last time
that she held my hand.

My own hands sit before me, useless.
I don’t know what to do with them.
There is nothing to do except
write down this poem.