Hands
Remembering your palms
through the glove of death
is harder than I expected it would be.
I once expected them daily.
Now, months blur past—whole
years without your fingers—
and I am oblivious to their absence.
I have made myself oblivious.
I had to, if I would survive that great lack,
if I would ever smile again
without chewing my cheeks raw.
Raw cheek, raw deal—
but the only one we got.
Some nights I wake with your belt
cinched tight around my neck.
Some nights, I make it tighter.
Others, I don’t know how I make it through.
Don’t look down on me too harshly—
or up, as you always liked to laugh.
God isn’t the only one who laughs at plans.
Of all the plans I had for your hands,
none involved them holding a peony
as I covered you in dirt.
I’m okay, it’s just that
lately I have been feeling baroque—
all shadow and movement
and sharp lines.
Renee says I’m manic,
asks if I’m still taking my pills,
but she doesn’t know
what it’s like to be drawn.
She doesn’t understand that I am
Bernini’s St. Teresa,
writhing, ecstatic, ready
to be pierced;
Carravagio’s Bacchus,
sick and pale-lipped
with wine and youth;
Gentileschi’s Judith,
fist full of greasy hair,
slicing into Holofernes’ neck—
and Holofernes,
struggling, struggling.
Before my father was ash
he was a tacking stitch, overlooked
on the cuff of an eighty-dollar suit,
slit up the back and sat
in a rented pine casket;
a final drop of saline, ripe
but refusing to fall
from its plastic spike
into the chamber below;
a three-inch pool of blood, kissed
into his bedside rug
in some first/last sajdah
toward what?
And before that—headlights
pulling out of the driveway
at 3am, maybe a week
from burning out;
a 16oz Pepsi bottle, emptied
of its caramel fluid
and refilled with boxed rosé,
tucked beneath the driver’s seat;
the woodgrain of a locked door
coming slowly into focus,
my forehead pressed
against the cool frame.
And before that—an oil stain
in the shape of the Virgin Mary
set fast in the polyester threads
of a factory-blue work shirt.
And on and on and on:
a thousand different
focal points
other than his face.
But before that—“Daddy!”
And before that—hands.
Tim Stobierski writes about relationships. His work explores themes of love, lust, longing, and loss — presented through the lens of his own experiences as a queer man. His poetry has been published in a number of journals, including Chiron Review, Gay & Lesbian Review, Midwest Quarterly, Dust, and Connecticut River Review. His first book of poems, Dancehall, was published by Antrim House Books in July 2023.
