My handsTrace the geography of your bonesThrough the history of your muscles and fat.My handsTrace the outline of my faceIn the bones of your back.My handsLike an immigrant's handsAre always looking forA fortune that is not often there.I am sorry for thinkingYour back, your legs, your hands, your faceWere made of clay. [End Page 58]
Being there before me,They are all yoursAnd go with youWhen you go. [End Page 59]
Steven R. Weiner is a nurse (for 26 years), a nurse practitioner (for about 20 of them) and hospital administrator (for 15 years). He's written poetry longer than that, but hasn't published since college, until now. He and Robin (best friend and wife) live 50 miles north of New York City with two incredible daughters, Catie and Emily, their dog, and three cats. The path here was winding, but it got me here, and I'm grateful for almost all of it.