Hand Poem by Joseph S. Josephides

I’ve nothing of value to mention for Cleopatra’s hand
when she plunged Heraclion, her own life, nothing
for Brutus’ hand which hits his friend or his self,
or for Bonaparte’s hand that cuts the mast to save
the vessel and hides the Pillar of Alexandria in his vest.

It’s worthy to mention the very hand of the Egyptian
in the Museum, in front of my eyes, the way he holds
with his thumb and palm the stretched fingers of his wife.

He projects his leg, she keeps joined both her own.
Hard to scalp the stone; the couple is expressionless.
Four millenniums ago the scalpels couldn’t chisel
passion, joy or grief; only and hardly a formal rigidness.
Is he leaving? Is he bidding farewell to her?
Will he take her with him?

Still, from the way he holds her, I decode ‘devotion’.




© JosephJosephides