Lullaby

These are not my hands

they are my mother’s.

Fashioned while I floated

in her grotto. A torso

like Laurasia; every limb

a language in its drift.

They are small.

They are delicate. Tender

as a nurturing tongue—

the soothe

of her evening song.

A man should not have

palms so silked & supple.

It’s a woman’s

watch I sport around

my wrist—since it’s the only

one that fits. It wasn’t hers—

that was entombed

about her carpus in ‘89.

Mine is just a thirteen-

dollar knock-off.

It reminds me of

my loss. The burial of

the one I would have

cradled. Its band & prong &

battery have long-since

broke. Or maybe it’s the world,

when all has slipped away from

lack of love; unanchored,

that dares to go on living;

its toast to a brand-new

sun, forgetting it’s just a

fist that holds a mirror

to a mirror, looking infinity

in its callous, fragile

face face face face

face face face face

face face face face face

Andreas Gripp

October 1, 2026

photograph: Ian Hooton / Science Photo Library