What hands remember
arms at sides
seeming to be waiting
the big words
sleep beneath
the palm of the hand
a sweet sucked
to a sliver
words like glass
a splinter under the fingernail
Who died of love?
In the lining all the children sleep
mouths and eyes wiped clean
They have no mouths where mouths should be
no sight where sight should be
Whoever would trust to the injury itself?
From these hands fires can dart
characteristics be burned away
Hands fall like tulip petals
sweep away a facial feature
As hands do in sleep
they remember their loneliness
She places the petals over the children
covers them with the palm of her hand
No-one died of love
There is a contrary wind I have never known
Johanna Ekström, borne 1970, is a writer and artist. She lives in Stockholm, Sweden.
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