Measured Hands // Poetry

measured hands

I wiped sweaty palms
on the back seat beside Sister
who griped she’s touching me!
I wiped my hands closer.
Mojave desert family outing
we tumbled over rocks
and dry chewed a peanut butter picnic
in the hot air.

An indigenous child pressed hands
to a gritty cliff face leaving
ochre prints amid centuries faded
spirals, suns, and birds flying forever
up the cliff face.
Sister’s hands were bigger,
mine smaller, than the imprints
of that other child,
touching across time and stone.

We measured hands
and whispered across
string and tin can telephones
in the dark,
when good children were
supposed to be asleep,
sister confidences
touched and touching.

Victoria Crawford
Victoria Crawford has had her poetry published in over three dozen journals and anthologies. She goes back and forth between New York and Thailand to visit her children and her grandchildren. “I just had the anniversary of losing my older sister, but these are not sad—child memories of what we shared instead.”

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