Poem: Fist

By Connie Frazer

Because Grandma

grew old twiddling

thumbs, hands clasped, eight

fingers locked together neat

as a carpentry join;

thumbs barrelling round

and round, over and

over in useless activity

releasing the blocked energy

-- the hint was there.

Yet I lived without noticing

how fingers on walls continually

point the way. I too

not half as old as Grandma

embarrassed in company

clumsy, open palms dangling:

fidgeting -- never knew what to do

with my hands. Even the wearing

of that symbol “ugly

as a boxer's glove” I thought.

But oh when “What do you

do all day?” he said again, I

answered back, suddenly

to feel strong

and wondering, gazed down

astonished at the miracle of

fingers become fists -- as if

they also knew

-- now, at last, what to do!

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