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!