Poem: Fist

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!

From GLW issue 163